


Blues Run the Game

by awed_frog



Series: (don't look back) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Yes Really), (mostly love though), Action/Adventure, Alternate Season/Series 13, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Crowley (Supernatural), Canon Compliant, Cas is not dead, Castiel is Not Oblivious, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Dean is Loved, Difficult Decisions, Grief/Mourning, Heartache, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Photographer Dean, Pining, Post-Season/Series 12, Protective Sam Winchester, Sam falls in love, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, author is writing out of rage and love, fight me, some greek mythology, with Eileen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-12 23:36:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 125,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11172456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: On the whole, Dean thinks this may be the worst day of his life. His mom's probably dead, Cas is lost in a fuckingMad Maxworld and Lucifer's kid is about to - to kill millions of people, or turn puppies inside out and oceans into lava or something, and why thefuckdo these things keep happening to him?Jesus.But as he drives back to the Bunker with Sam, Dean doesn't know he's about to embark on his very last hunt, and he doesn't know Cas is not lost, at all - because Cas has been found, and that will changeeverything.





	1. A Long Way Back

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU for encouraging me to write this story - man, I can't believe this is really happening. 
> 
> (*glances at tentative plan sketched out on A3 sheet of paper* - *breathes into a paper bag*)
> 
> If we know each other already, nice to see you again! If we don't, hi! What I like to write are feels-heavy stories featuring liberal amounts of painful memories because Winchesters - but, I never write overly graphic things and I like happy endings, so there's that. If you've got any questions about specific warnings, please come and talk to me on [tumblr](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Guys, I'll do my best to update every Sunday, but it’s going to be slow (I’m planning to finish this around the end of the summer) and it’s going to be painful - seatbelts on, please.
> 
> Also, it all started with _almost too much_ , a coda to SPN S12E23, which is now a prologue you can read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10988874/chapters/24473493). I _highly_ recommend you do so before starting to read this story.

_Living is a gamble, baby,_  
_Loving's much the same,_  
_Wherever I have played,_  
_Wherever I throw them dice,_  
_Wherever I have played_  
_The blues have run the game._

 

The ride back to the Bunker is mostly silent. Dean feels Sam glance at him from time to time, his eyes so full of unsaid things Dean always shifts away from his brother when he knows Sam is looking, because _No thank you, okay? Fuck off_. He doesn’t want to think about Cas, and he doesn’t want to think about Mom. Hell, he doesn’t even want to think about Crowley. And he certainly doesn’t want to think about Lucifer’s kid, who could be anywhere by now, and god fucking _dammit_.

(He'd _told_ Cas they'd found a cure, told him they could turn that thing into a human baby, told him -

They'd been so fucking _close_ , and now -) 

Instead, he looks straight ahead, his head full of music (Sam knows better than to complain about the volume), his heart a black mass of charred and useless flesh. 

It’s unfair, maybe, but why him? Why the fuck _him_? With Mom back, he’d really let himself hope that for fucking _once_ , things would be - hell, not perfect, not by a mile, and not even okay, whatever, but - bearable? Not the kind of life people need to forget about in half a bottle of Johnny, that is, but just - just a life you live.

_Jesus._

He remembers driving on a road much like this one, just a stretch of gray flanked by golden fields, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat. He remembers the elation he'd felt - how he couldn’t wait to tell Sam, to see Cas - how he’d imagined it a thousand times - unlocking the door of the Bunker, making his way downstairs, a shit-eating grin on his face as he caught sight of Sam and Cas walking towards him, because they would have heard the door opening, okay, and they would have come to meet them, Sam with his gun aimed straight at them and Cas all serious and sad and stubborn, and then - Dean remembers those fleeting feelings, annoyance and frustration, or some light, inconsistent version of them, as he’d tried to come up with something smart to say. _The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated_ , maybe, or possibly _I knew you couldn’t get Gary fucking Busey, you suck so bad_. Not that he’d known, exactly, how Sam had organized his wake, but yeah. No _chance_ the stupid kid would get Busey. And when his mother had moved in her sleep, turning her face towards him, Dean had forgotten all about it and just drunk her in, because, Jesus, maybe this was it - this was finally the moment they could fucking have it all. 

His thoughts had shifted, then - sliding off the shock and relief Sam and Cas would surely feel, all the way to what would happen later - to lazy evenings in the Bunker - man, they would buy a couch - _two_ couches - to how they’d watch movies as a family so Mom could catch up with all the awesome stuff she’d missed - Sam would whine about having to sit through _The Lords of the Rings_ one more time, and Cas would make that face he mostly made when he thought Dean was being unreasonable, but Dean would have shrugged it off, because the four of them eating popcorn as Frodo faced the Black Riders - yeah, nothing could beat that, not ever. And if his hand moved towards the back of Cas’ head at some point during the movie, hell, no one needed to know. 

_God_.

Dean taps his fingers on the wheel, glances at their passenger through the rearview mirror. 

(The body is sitting up straight, head resting back, eyes closed, and it looks so much like Cas Dean wants to crash the car.)

 _That’s not him_ , he thinks, automatically, as he has every time he’s caught sight of the body over the last five hours. _Not him._

The thing is, it _looks_ like Cas, though. In fact, it looks so _much_ like Cas that when Sam had half-suggested leaving the body behind Dean had just glared at him.

Because it would have made sense - if there was some kind of missing persons file on Jimmy, well, that would have settled it - police would have come to the cabin, found Kelly’s body next to - next to James Novak, his shitty business card holder in the pocket of his coat and a stab wound smack through his heart, and good fucking luck finding a matching blade - and then there would have been no danger of anyone sniffing around when the real Cas came back, and they could have -

Because Cas _would_ come back. 

Because Dean would fucking _make_ him.

 _God_.

“I could do with some food,” Sam says, his voice a bit louder than usual so Dean can hear him over _Thunderstruck_.

Dean glances at him, sees Sam has his tablet out, is scrolling through something. Thinks that maybe Sam has been talking for some time, but he can’t be sure.

He really doesn’t want to stop, can’t imagine eating, possibly ever again, but this is Sam - if he needs one of his freakish green smoothies, he’ll fucking get one.

(“We’ll stop when we get there,” Dad would say, frowning, and before Sam could open his mouth, he’d add, “And we’ll get there when we get there.”

Dean would keep his eyes on whatever it was Dad had tasked him to do - sometimes it was sifting through newspapers cuttings, other times long lists of nonsensical Latin incantations Dean would force himself to memorize, going through each line a hundred times as the landscape blurred outside the window - but he would always, always feel the weight of Sam’s - disappointment, that’s what it was - on the back of his head. Because it was a bullshit cycle, yeah, and when John was away, everything sucked and Dean would promise, he would _swear_ , that things would be better when Dad came back and _You just wait, we’ll go for waffles_ and _Dad will bring you back that Lego set you saw on TV_ and _Everything will be fine_ , and then when John did come back, it never was. God, those long drives were the worst - most of the time, John would be too annoyed (hungover) to listen to music or listen to their stupid blabbering, so they would just - Sammy would read, of course, and Dean -)

“Dean?”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean clears his throat. “Any, you know - news?”

Sam pushes his hair back.

“Power outages in Louisiana,” he says. “Could be nothing.”

It probably _is_ nothing - how the _fuck_ would that thing have gotten to Louisiana? Unless -

 _God, can it -_ fly _? Lucifer still has his wings, right? Does that mean -_

“I say we wait for something bigger,” Sam says, and it’s likely he’s following the same train of thought Dean is, because he adds, in a deliberately offhand way, “Until we know more about Jack, let’s assume he moves around normally - let’s check stuff on the West Coast first.”

Good - there it is: a plan. Great stuff, and a fucking gold star for Sammy. 

Dean nods, glances up at the mirror despite himself, then back at the golden fields. 

Sure, he’d worried, on and off, about what Mom would say of it all, what she would think of them both - of that twisted thing between Sam and Lucifer, of Crowley and Rowena, of Dean himself, who was still only half the man his father had wanted him to be. If she would have noticed the way Dean looked at Cas, because, goddammit, Dean knows by now that Sam’s noticed, the little shit, and can hear it in the way Sam talks to him - in how _careful_ Sam is when he asks Dean if Cas has called, in how _often_ he’d shuffled on the threshold of Dean’s room, a bit awkwardly, to say yet again that _Cas will be fine and we’ll get him back_ while Dean pretended that Lucifer’s voice in Cas’ mouth was no big deal, and _Jesus, Sam, stop being such a girl, I_ know _he’ll be fine, okay? Fuck off_. And he knows Sam is waiting for him to say something; that he’s been waiting for some time, in fact - maybe from that night he was twelve and sleepy and scared as he watched John beat the shit out of Dean in that New York alley.

(Dean knows he kept smiling through all of it, and yeah, so he'd been high, but he'd mostly wanted Sam to think it was okay, that this didn’t change anything, that it was simply something John and Dean did from time to time and it would never happen to him.

And, hell, that part was true - if John had _ever_ tried to put a finger on Sam, Dean would have killed him with his bare hands.)

And part of what hurts and hurts and hurts is that that moment had been so _close_ \- the world was safe and Mom was back from the dead and all of a sudden this huge, soul-crushing secret had seemed like no secret at all - so he liked men, so what? So he was in love with Cas, so what? Cas loved him back, right? Everybody could see that. And so maybe he didn’t love Dean back in any easy, human way - in that kind of _Okay, let’s go for drinks and take it from there_ thing that ended in touching and kissing in the backseat of a car - maybe it would have been different with Cas, because who the hell even knows how Cas thinks, but who cares, uh? Who the fuck _cares_? Whatever Cas could give - Dean would take it. It was _fine_. And Sam would be okay with it, and Mom - Mom had been wearing a cheap hoodie, her blond hair falling in messy waves over the green fabric - Mom would have accepted it. In time.

Dean had known, even then, that he wasn’t thinking clearly - fuck, he’d died often enough to know how it worked - that crazy sense of possibility that washed down on you like a damn tsunami once you realized that you got another shot at life after all - but all the same, he’d let himself bask and get lost in the feeling. Another three hours and they’d be at the Bunker. Sam would cry, probably, or, worse, he’d just stare at him with that face he made from time to time - half shock and half pain and an open, raw feeling that was like his soul breaking in two, and Dean couldn’t bear it - and after that, Dean and Cas would go on a pizza run while Sam showed Mom around, and they would talk, and seven hours from now, just seven hours, give or take, and that was nothing, nothing at all - seven hours from now Dean would be in bed with Cas, sleepy and comfy and warm, and Cas would smile as he listened to Sam and Mary’s conversation through three different walls, would say something sappy like, _She’s telling him about the time you ate a worm, do you remember that?_ and Dean would smack his arm and _Just sleep, or watch over me, or whatever - I’m beat, man_ , and everything would be alright, forever.

There’s a diner coming up on their right, and Dean slows down.

Of course, it hadn’t been that easy, when was it ever easy, and now -

(Despite himself, he glances at the body through the mirror, then away.)

A woman is selling peaches by the side of the road. She smiles and waves at them as Dean turns into the diner’s parking lot, and as Sam waves back, Dean suddenly realizes there’s gonna be a crate of peaches on Baby’s backseat, and he groans. Sam had better put down a newspaper or something, because Dean will _not_ spend one hour scrubbing rotting fruit off the leather. No _way_.

(Sam used to do this all the time, more to upset Dad than anything else - sometimes Dean would catch him as Sam deliberately made crumbs or spilled a few drops of soda against the seats, and he'd only understood years later, as he watched Lisa scold Ben over the state of his room, that Sam had never had a room of his own; that those annoying things he did to Baby back when he was ten or so were exactly like Ben and every other teenager in the world dropping their socks all over the place and collecting dishes in their rooms - for Sam, that had been a way to be seen and heard, to prove to himself that, whatever, he didn’t have any friends and he would never amount to much in his life, but fuck it, he could still annoy the hell out of John and Dean if he wanted to, because despite it all, he was a person, a real human being separate from everybody else and he was there and _See me, goddammit_.

 _Love me_.)

“You’re not coming?” Sam asks, bending down and looking at Dean through the window of the passenger seat.

Dean rolls his eyes at him.

“Dude, we’ve got a fucking dead body here.”

Sam looks at Cas, then away.

“Maybe we could -” He starts, and Dean cuts him off.

“Just bring me back some coffee, okay?” There’s a line of pain and unhappiness running all the way from Sam’s mouth to Dean’s chest, but Dean shrugs it off. “Black, two sugars. Shot of Johnny.”

Sam frowns in mock disapproval, lets go of whatever it was he wanted to say.

“I’ll be right back.”

Dean nods, and, as Sam disappears towards the diner, leans forward, turns the volume all the way up.

_Fuck._

He wishes he could just take a couple of pills and let go of the world for a few hours, because Phil’s drums are beating against his brain, but they’re still not loud enough to make everything else go away - they’re not loud enough to stop Dean from turning around in his seat and look at Cas, and they’re definitely not loud enough to prevent Dean from reaching over and putting his hand on Cas’ knee.

“You stupid _bastard_ ,” he mutters.

He doesn’t know who this Cas was, and what he was like in that other world of ash and dust, but Cas is Cas, so Dean will put _reckless_ and _idiot_ and _self-sacrificing dumbass_ on the list, and yeah. His hand still on the slightly worn fabric of Jimmy’s slacks, Dean suddenly lets himself wonder about it - if this Cas was fighting with the Host, if he’d considered defeating demons more important than anything else, or if he’d been like _his_ Cas, desperate to do the right thing and noble enough to go against everything he’d ever known on a point of honor. And next, Dean tries to figure out when the switch has happened, but his memories of those moments are patchy - he'd been on edge for weeks because of that Nephilim business, and he always hated fighting with Cas, and then everything had happened so quickly - Mom and fucking Ketch and Sammy going off on his own to fight a damn _war_ and Bobby - Dean turns away from Cas, takes a deep breath as a majestic guitar solo hacks his very soul to pieces, because Bobby - the way the man had looked at him had been so _wrong_ , and Dean remembers all those moments, okay, he remembers Bobby playing with him and complaining about his favorite soaps and sitting down with Sam to help him with his homework and the way he’d still check on Dean from time to time, just look at him from under his baseball cap in a way that said, _I’m here, son, and there’s food on the table for the two of you, and I’ll take care of everything - you watch your cartoons now_.

(Bobby would never shout at them, would never reach for Dean in that way Dad did, so that Dean never knew which was worse - Dad leaning on him as he sobbed and cursed in drunken desperation or Dad hitting him across the face because he’d fucked up again - no, Bobby would _listen_ to them - Dean remembers how _surprised_ he’d been the first few times, because Sam, sure, he always had his nose in some book and would chat about interesting stuff like robots and serial killers, but Dean - nobody had ever listened to Dean the way Bobby had.

One night, he’d overheard John talking to Bobby, and _I don’t know what’s wrong with the kid, he never says much at all_ , and Bobby had taken a long time to answer before saying, a bit too loudly, _I don’t know what you’re talking about_.)

Dean thinks about praying to Cas, decides against it. 

Cas won’t hear him - that’s not how it works, because if it did, my _God_ , it’d just be a fucking mess, right? Angels on every damn dimension getting messages not meant for them?

And anyway, since when does the bastard listen to his prayers? Right this moment, slowly baking in the late afternoon sun turning orange and red through the windshield, Dean feels like he’s done little else but pray to Cas and call Cas for the past two months, and what does he have to show for it? Fuck all, that’s what. _I always come when you call_ \- right. As fucking if. And maybe Dean’s being unfair, but he doesn’t fucking care, okay, because this was supposed to be _over_ \- the Nephilim could have been a normal kid if Cas had fucking listened to him, and Lucifer - Lucifer would have -

Yeah, fuck Crowley too. 

Seriously - what was _wrong_ with all of them? What has Dean ever done to deserve any of this shit?

He glances back at Cas again, remembers what it was like to see him actually sleeping - how much more _human_ he’d looked (relaxed; vulnerable). How Dean had thought, every time, that today was the day he was going to talk to Cas - the right moment to explain -

By the time Sam comes back - with a brown bag, two coffees, and a fucking box of peaches cradled under one freakishly long arm - Dean is craving those pills more than ever. There were those blue things Richie always carried - they’d hunted together for a few months, just after Sam had left for Stanford, and it’d been - wild, but also different from anything else Dean had ever known, because okay, he’d been high before, but this was - _whoa_. He’s craved that feeling from time to time over the years, because it was just a kind of soft emptiness - a fluffy nothing Dean could simply smile at, and sometimes he’d woke up cuddling against Richie’s back and just lay there until Richie stretched and turned and grinned at him lazily, his eyes still a bit clouded, out of it. _My boy, he knows his stuff, eh?_ he’d say, and he would never complain if Dean moved a bit closer and closed his eyes again. 

Hell, with the lives they had - Dean liked his drink, but sometimes he just needed something a bit stronger to push away the memories and the nightmares, and with John and Sam gone there had been no one left to stop him and nag at him.

But now Sam’s here, and Dean’s grateful, okay, _beyond_ grateful, but still - he hisses in annoyance when Sam starts to get raw things out of the bag - more fruits, and what looks like a spiked egg.

“I got you a burger. And pie,” Sam says, without looking up, and Dean shrugs, starts the car.

“Not hungry. Where's my coffee?”

Sam hands him a bottle, some kind of iced frappuccino, turns the volume down. Dean scoffs at him.

“So it’s one of _those_ days,” he mutters. Still, he accepts the thing, unscrews the cap.

“Come on, I know you love that stuff.”

Dean makes a noncommittal noise and drinks the sweet thing down. It's not bad, but, whatever - it does nothing for his mood or his general sense of purpose.

“You know the Bunker’s gonna be full of corpses,” he says after a while, his eyes on the golden fields again. 

“Full of -” Sam was about to peel that stupid egg thingie he bought, but stops in mid-movement instead, looks up. “What do you mean?”

Dean speeds up, tries and fails not to smile.

“Mom ganked Ketch.”

“She _didn’t_.”

“Yep. One shot, straight through the eyes.”

Sam looks at Dean, then follows his gaze to the beautiful landscape surrounding them.

“I don't know if I'm impressed or terrified,” he says in the end, with a wry smile. 

Dean rolls his eyes and turns the volume up again as they both pretend that’s funny and everything’s okay and the world’s not about to crash down on them both - fucking again. He glances at Sam, then at Cas ( _Not him._ ), then at Sam again. Wishes he didn't have to bring this up, but they're only a few hours out, and when does it ever matter what _he_ wants, anyway.

“And Ketch - he killed Toni. I think. I was out, so.”

Dean looks at his brother, and the thing is, he knows Sam too damn well, because there it is - that minuscule, barely there tightening of the jaw, the effort not to care and not to show anything - right fucking there, and clear as day. Sam was always this bleeding heart growing up - that Samantha thing, Dean remembers how it started, how easy it was, in his world of guns and the coppery scent of blood, to see his brother as different - girly, even - how _painful_ to watch on as Sammy cried over roadkill and bullied kids and the general injustice of the world. Dad would never say anything - that wasn’t his job, it was Dean’s, it always was Dean’s - to make sure Sam had enough to eat and clean clothes for school, sure, and to answer his questions about Mom, but also to hold him when he cried and tease it out of him at the same time - Dean had hated hated _hated_ to pry that softness out of Sammy, to push him back when he wanted to cuddle, to cut his hair brutally short, to leave him bruised after wrestling practice, but he’d gone ahead and done it anyway, because that was their world and it was never gonna change - not a place of pet bunnies and birthday cakes and lullabies - no - a battlefield - Dean would look at Sam sometimes, look at how his brother worried about keeping his writing neat and coloring inside the lines and finishing his reading assignments and his brain would fill with black and blue and gore, because there were things and monsters and demons out there, okay, evil fuckers gunning for this kid and what chance did any of them have against them? Dad could hold them off, sure (maybe), but Dean - and Sammy - and so now Dean gets his eyes back on the road and wishes Sam would talk about it, wishes Sam wouldn’t feel sorry for a woman who’s tied him to a chair and tortured him, but hey - despite everything, that’s still who his brother is, and Dean’s damn _proud_ of him.

“She was an evil bitch,” he says, levelly, and Sam makes some kind of noise in disagreement.

“She,” he starts, and sighs. “She told me about her kid, back when - you know. She’d just - sit back and check her watch and say, _My son is starting his lacrosse right now_ , or _It’s seven in the morning in London, I’m sure Fitz is awake_ \- and I -”

Dean says nothing. Thinking about those days still cuts through him like a fucking meat cleaver. He remembers running down the stairs, seeing the blood - the sigil on the wall - Jesus, he’d been sure, absolutely fucking _sure_ , that he’d find Sam’s body somewhere in the Bunker, his eyes wide and staring, because Mom being back - because there’s always a price for these things, right? You never get anything for free.

“Of course, it’s an interrogation technique,” Sam says, and now he sounds solidly rational again. “She was learning things about me, and she wanted to share things about her so she could - normalize what was going on. So I could relate to her. Textbook stuff.”

“Yeah, whatever, Reid.”

There is a long pause, almost two songs’ worth, and Dean is still trying to figure out how they’ll get rid of two bodies - hell, what they’ll do with - with _Cas’_ body - when Sam speaks again.

“I hope she was lying,” he says quietly, before sliding down in his customary _Okay, I’m sleeping now_ position, forehead against the window, just like when he was a kid. “Children shouldn’t grow up without their parents.”

Dean reaches out, lowers the volume and then, almost despite himself, pats Sam’s leg, squeezing a bit before letting go. He doesn’t know if he's comforting Sam or himself here - part of him's still useless and reeling with shock and grief - there's someone who sounds like his demon self sneering and shouting at him that _You deluded, drunken bastard, it’s all over_ and how likely it is that Mom would still be alive and what the fuck has even happened to Cas and what if Dean's wrong and blind and this - _thing_ sitting in the backseat of his Baby is actually the _real_ Cas and -

(But Dean would know, wouldn't he? He'd - feel it?

Because, fuck -)

Sam hums quietly, and Dean clears his throat, tries to focus on the rapidly darkening horizon.

Neither of them notices the car following them through the empty grasslands of Wyoming, whispering and flickering under a full moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toni won't feature a lot, if at all, in this fic - if you're curious about my headcanon and her kid, I wrote part of my 2016 DCBB about her and Sam - before I knew she'd turn out to be a psychopath, obviously.  
> You can read that story [ here ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8315497/chapters/19042117).
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	2. Never Talk to Firs

The world is silent, and that’s why Cas comes back to himself - the frightening, deafening silence - the quiet and emptiness of it pressing down on him like a solid weight, crowding against his mind and heart.

He shudders, breathes through the pain - the wounds on his back pull and pull at his flesh, burn all the way to the white blue Grace of his true self - and lets his mind go, looking for - anything, really. Because this silence, it’s not - his brothers should be there, their voices talking and singing and praying inside his head, and Kelly’s child should be there, because Cas had heard him from the very beginning, heard the fire and light of him and the intoxicating colors of his human soul; and, most of all, Dean should be there, and he’s not.

Suddenly terrified, Cas tries harder, moves farther and farther - he’s in a forest, he knows as much without even opening his eyes, but this is not Dean’s world, and it’s not that world of ashes and ruin where Dean didn’t exist at all. No, this is someplace else, and the realization crashes down on him, red hot and painful. 

It doesn’t even matter where or when he is - what matters is that he can’t protect Dean.

(That he won’t, perhaps, ever see Dean again.)

A noise starts in the back of his throat, something this human body of his seemingly comes up with on its own, because angels are not capable of crying and even this grief - Cas has witnessed it several times, he’s forced himself to follow the women moving through silent battlefields, to watch them as they crumbled over the bodies of sons and husbands and brothers; he’d wanted to learn, perhaps, or to make penance, because some of those wars - God had commanded them so that destiny could be tweaked and prodded towards a more appropriate direction.

Necessary: not nearly the same thing as righteous.

Untimely deaths were always, _always_ a sin. A sign he and his brothers had failed and had been defeated in their mission and purpose.

So Cas has seen it, thousands of times, but still - he’s almost _surprised_ to feel it within himself now. He didn't know he could make such a noise. This sense of loss he’s experiencing - this certainty something irreplaceable has just slipped from his fingers and shattered on the ground - he's not used to it. These strong, almost _human_ surges of heat and warmth and cold and fury had started to surface and sharpen the very moment he’d first seen Dean in Hell, which means they’re still recent enough to take him by surprise and break him apart. 

Nine years, after all, is not such a long time for a seraph. 

(It’s incomprehensible, really, that they could change _everything_.)

Still, Cas is first and foremost a soldier, and he knows perfectly well that giving in to his worry and grief will achieve nothing. He needs to understand where he is and take care of his wounds before they kill him, and after that - after that, he will find a way back. And Dean - a memory of Dean suddenly stabs its way through Cas’ mind, clear-cut and perfect - Dean making coffee in the Bunker’s kitchen, his normally neat hair sticking up at weird angles; Dean humming to himself as he moves towards the old fridge, still unaware of Cas’ presence behind him; Dean suddenly catching sight of him - his soul opening up like a fiery flower, blossoming in the pinks and oranges of joy and contentment and something else - something Cas would always, always be wary to call love. Dean’s smile, Dean’s green eyes, Dean’s pure, untarnished heart are so vivid and present against his eyelids Cas finds himself breathing hard even if he doesn’t need to breathe at all. He opens his eyes, then, trying to both hold on to that memory and push it as far away as possible, because it’s distracting and painful and not what he needs right now - and he sees that he was, of course, right - that he’s in a forest clearing, old pine needles and soft moss breathing and chattering under the weight of his body, a solitary beam of grey sunlight peeking in through tall larches.

Cas pushes himself to his knees, gritting his teeth against the pain as he tries, again, to chase after some noise - not Dean’s soul, perhaps, and not even Jack Kline, not here, but his _brothers_ \- shouldn’t he be able to hear his brothers, even on another plane? He suddenly wonders, as one of the thorns in his back grates against Jimmy’s shoulder blade, if he’s become human. 

The thought is unsettling, and Cas finds, as ever, that he’s strangely - _ambivalent_ on the matter. Because being human - that had been frustrating, _irksome_ , even, when Cas had tried to make his way back to the Bunker - he’d hated the thankless slowness of it - the persistent need to eat and drink, those shards of unwanted feeling cutting through him as he talked to other people; also, the cold, the sudden loneliness. But once he’d been with Sam and Dean - Cas remembers standing under the warm water of the Bunker’s shower - remembers reaching out, on instinct, to check that Sam and Dean were okay, and when he’d realized he was now unable to do that - because, of course, seeing through walls and listening to human souls was no longer something he could do - he’d felt - _nothing_. He’d _known_ , after all, that they were perfectly alright - that Sam was putting together some sort of room for him, pilfering clothes and razors and a burner phone from their own rooms, that Dean was cooking - he’d said he’d make burgers, and Cas’ stomach had grumbled at the thought, all other concerns forgotten.

But now -

Cas puts his right hand over his heart, slow and careful, because he can feel he’s not human, but he needs to make sure - he closes his eyes as his broken wings explode from his human shoulders, and he keeps them visible for a few more seconds as he takes it in - his powers are still there, his Grace is intact, everything is fine - _must_ be fine - before breathing out and folding them into non-being once more.

When he raises his head, he finds a rabbit staring at him.

“What?” he snaps, and the rabbit scurries off.

Cas is still an angel, but the thought gives him no joy at all. He tries to remember what happened, finds he can’t. He remembers walking into the golden rift, remembers Bobby Singer, harsher and older than his friend had been, remembers a sudden flash of light and someone shouting _Watch out!_ \- and then nothing.

The landscape around him is completely foreign.

Still - Cas needs to move. He estimates he’s got twelve hours left - if he doesn’t burn those thorns out of his back with Holy Oil, they will consume him.

That device had not been meant for him, perhaps, but it had still been effective. An anti-angel landmine - he has to admit it: human ingenuity will never cease to amaze him.

It _hurts_ , though.

A _lot_.

Cas takes a deep breath, stands up. The pain is only made worse by movement, but he can bear it - he’s fought hundreds of battles and he’s been tortured by angels and demons and he’s once had his wings torn from him by a Knight of Darkness - this is something he can push back and ignore. 

He needs to.

As he turns his head and tried to get his bearings, the forest around him blinks back at him, slow and sleepy. Most trees are not helpful by nature, and the tall firs currently surrounding him may very well be the worst of the lot - unambitious, placid creatures which probably haven’t even noticed him yet, and never mind giving him any kind of useful information. 

Cas looks up at the empty patch of sky he can see through the trees, looking for an eagle or a raven he can push his mind into, but even as he scans the rain-heavy clouds, he realizes that it’s no good - he can’t do any skin-walking, not until he gets the poisoned thorns out of his skin. No, there’s nothing to it: he will have to walk, and hope to get somewhere before -

The reality of it suddenly hits him: he is going to die.

A world where his brothers are silent is most probably a world without hunters and magic - a world where Holy Oil may very well be nothing more than a vague construct in his Father’s mind. And even if the thing should exist, the likelihood that Cas will find some within twelve hours is - minuscule. Laughable, in fact.

Wherever Dean is, he will have to go on without him.

And now, Cas feels it again - the wave of grief, of lost possibilities. It makes no sense. Dean was a fine hunter and an outstanding person long before Cas came along - he doesn’t need Cas, not in the way Cas needs him. He will be fine. And as for Jack Kline - Dean and Sam have survived worse.

This is the end of the road, and it’s okay.

The sky grumbles with the first hint of a storm, and Cas is distracted out of his dark thoughts.

Staying here and waiting for death, just because survival seems unlikely and unnecessary - that is giving up, and Dean wouldn’t want him to give up. Cas knows as much. Even when the fight is pointless, Dean always trudges on, stubborn and angry, his soul flashing out in sharp flashes of bright light, and Cas - Cas must do the same.

Ignoring the quiet voices of the trees around him, Cas takes a step forward, then another. His wounds move with him, loud and burning, and Cas shushes them. He’s a warrior and a strategist - he will keep fighting until he can’t, and then he will fight some more. There is simply no other option.

The clouds above him growl again, low and angry.

Cas looks up, almost in reprimand, then pushes his mind through the trees, only just. He needs to find water, to go downhill - that is his best chance to -

(To what? To find a healer or a Virtue? In a world he knows nothing about?)

\- to encounter a human settlement, understand where and when he is.

And he hears it now: the low, joyful sound of a creek twisting and turning somewhere to the East, its music full of life and possibilities. There are half a dozen of careful, solid presences by that water - deer, Cas thinks, judging by the ripples they make against its Grace - and also - something else, just out of reach. A bear, perhaps? Cas pushes his mind a bit farther, and, out of instinct, he seeks out Dean’s soul again, because he’s weak and damaged and this is what he does, a hundred times a day - just press his Grace lightly against Dean’s soul, make sure Dean is not hurt, make sure -

But, of course, there is nothing out there now.

Dean is not here.

Maybe this is another world where he wasn’t born at all.

(Maybe this is a world where Lucifer was more convincing and _humanity_ wasn’t born at all.)

Cas clenches his hands into fists, starts to make his way forward, limping slightly.

As he walks, he tries again to remember what had happened after he’d walked through the rift, but the memories just won’t come. He thinks about Jack Kline instead, finds he still knows, deep within himself, that the Nephilim had been pure - unsullied by Lucifer’s cold malice. He wonders what Sam and Dean will make of him - an angel with a human soul. The most powerful creature in the entire universe. He doesn’t believe Kelly’s child would hurt either of them, but still, there are risks - the Nephilim would protect himself, of course, shield himself from harm, and he could be unable or unwilling to measure his own strength.

Kelly had asked Cas to guide her child, and Cas has failed.

Again.

Maybe that’s what he was always meant to be: a cautionary tale.

_Come on, man, that’s not true._

Dean’s voice is loud and clear inside his head, because this is a discussion they almost had many times before - Cas remembers the way Dean would come into his room, quiet and wary - remembers how he would look around, his soul mostly flashing in displeasure (and something else, something Cas hadn’t been able to identify) as he took in the bare walls, the neat, empty desk - remembers that he’d finally sit down on the bed, light and careful and on the very edge, as if he didn’t have any right to.

 _What’re you watching?_ he would ask, and Cas would lower the screen another fraction so he could see him properly.

Cas never knew what to say back, because whatever his answer Dean would scoff and roll his eyes and insist this one show Sam had encouraged Cas to watch was ‘girly, trust him to enjoy something like that’ and that other documentary about spelling bees ‘’s got nothing to do with _bees_ , you know that, right?’ and the amusing compilation of make-up tutorials he’d found was ‘not normal, Cas, dudes don’t watch that shit’. So, well, Cas would normally tell him the truth, because that’s what he always did, and then tune out the consequences, focusing on Dean’s face instead - on the light freckles on the bridge of his nose, on that single droplet escaping from his damp hair and making his way across his collarbone, on his hands - his beautiful, firm, capable hands, the same hands Cas had first seen gripping a demonic kriss, the same hands Dean had brought up to protect his face when Cas had flared his light at him, turning the underground prison into a flooded brightness of bodies and bones. Cas had _known_ , even then, that Dean Winchester was not this - _thing_ he’d pretended to be, a creature whose eyes were just this side of black; no, his soul had given him away. Still, he’d been unprepared for the softness of this man - every time he saw Dean’s strong, steady hands tousle Sam’s hair, or tighten something under the hood of his black car, slow and loving - every time he saw Dean casually prod at pancakes and tortillas and close around guitar necks and the handles of a shopping cart - every time he saw the care and gentleness Dean put in his movements when he comforted someone who was hurt and scared -

(every time Dean touched _him_ , every time Dean put his hands on _him_ , as if Cas had any right to them)

\- Cas had to hold his breath and marvel, because this man - there was something heartbreaking in knowing, precisely and intimately, just how much pain had been inflicted on Dean, how much the Righteous Man had suffered and endured; and yet Cas knew that if the burden had fallen on anyone else, the world would have splintered and broken, and Lucifer’s monstrous army would have feasted on the remains. 

When the rain starts, it’s not unexpected, or unwelcome. Cas is never judgemental about the weather, no matter how hard Dean has tried to change his mind, and this is barely there rain, anyway - tentative touches against his face and hands, their music so muffled as to be almost non-existent.

Cas is still following the call of the creek, and he can almost see it now, between the trees - it blinks and shimmers against the rocks, unconcerned with Cas’ dire predicament. 

One of the poisoned thorns suddenly pierces a nerve, and Cas stops, almost doubles over, his mind turning inside out with black pain and despair as he thinks, again, that he cannot do this, that it is useless to even try.

But he will do this.

He will try his best.

As he straightens up, he feels something move inside the chest pocket of his coat - Dean’s tape. He fishes it out, marvels at it. Somehow, what with the chaos of the last few weeks, he’d forgotten all about it.

He wonders if Dean will be mad at him for bringing it along into a world he’ll never be able to slip into, but then he remembers Dean’s terse, clipped tone.

_It’s a gift. You keep those._

Cas passes his thumb over the label.

The thing is, he hasn’t listened to it yet.

There hadn’t been time.

Or, perhaps, it had never been the right moment.

Nobody had ever given him anything before, not like this, and Cas had wanted the experience to _mean_ something - he’d thought about playing the tape as he drove back to Dean, the Nephilim defeated, its real and present threat made void - he’d thought about stopping somewhere and buy Dean’s favorite pie - he always kept some money in his wallet, money he privately thought of as pie money, because what else was it good for? Cas certainly didn’t need to eat himself, and he often mojoed his way out of gas bills because it was quicker and easier. 

(People always looked at him weirdly when he poured the entire content of his wallet on the counter, or tried to figure out which bills were which. He’d tried arguing with Sam once about the practicality of same-colored notes, but that had gotten nowhere.)

Instead, well. 

And Cas knew all of Led Zeppelin’s songs, anyway. If Dean quizzed him about the tape, he could pretend he’d listened to it - Metatron had made sure Cas could answer to every culture-related question anyone could ever come up with.

And why had Dean given him that tape?

Cas remembers Dean frowning at the radio of Cas’ truck, months and months ago - it had been just after Ramiel’s death - Sam and Mary had taken the Impala, and Dean had insisted in driving Cas back to the Bunker, because _Come on, man_ and _You’re still covered in goo_ and _Just hand over the keys and shut up, okay?_. It had been a long, awkward drive - Cas had been very, _very_ tired, only half alive, his thoughts and memories sliding in and out of his head like water splashing in a bowl, and Dean’s soul had burned such a deep, fiery red Cas had had to look away, because he didn’t - because -

They’d stopped only once - Dean had left him in the car to get himself something to eat, and when he’d come back he’d opened the passenger door first, had stood there, uncertain and sad, his eyes assessing Cas’ general appearance. _I know you don’t need_ , he’d started, then stopped. _I know you can clean yourself up, and it’s not worth it to stop somewhere for the night, anyway_ \- Cas had barely heard the words, because they’d tasted sweet and sharp on his tongue - disappointment, perhaps, and - longing? Did Dean _want_ them to find a motel? Was he more tired than he let on? 

Cas knew humans liked to be close to one another after a shock, and Dean was no exception. After hunts, his usual routine was to wash every drop of gore and bad memories off himself and then - go out, find a willing partner.

Cas had been about to say he wouldn’t mind waiting in the car if Dean wanted to do that, that he was in no hurry to go back, when Dean had closed the distance between them, touched the side of his face. He'd been holding a paper napkin with a faded blue logo, and when Cas had ducked his head, bewildered, Dean had put two fingers under his chin, gently forced him to look up again. _I can’t_ , he’d said, then looked away. _You’re still covered in that stuff, just - hold still_. And Cas had - he’d just allowed Dean to clean his face, and he’d watched, tired and lazy and distractedly content, as Dean’s eyes flickered down to his lips, then up again.

Kissing was a very natural reaction to shock and grief, and Dean’s life was short of neither. It was no wonder, really, that he sometimes gave the impression of wanting to be closer - but that didn’t make it right. It didn’t mean Cas should let him close that distance between them, because - just because.

(Because Dean deserved so _much_ more.

Not someone who was simply there at a convenient time, when hormones and fear and the flawed design of the human body craved physical contact, and certainly not someone who would never feel anything as deeply and unreservedly as a human being, but someone - _someone_ -)

Cas breathes in deeply, puts the tape back in his pocket, starts moving again.

The forest is starting to notice the light rain - trees and mushrooms and the lonely, shockingly red Columbines are now straining up, delighting in it, and Cas’ mind is slowly filling with small, hidden noises as insects and mice scurry about, looking for shelter.

He’s walked perhaps half an hour when the feeling suddenly hits him - the familiar, comforting weight of a human soul, and not just that - Cas stops, then takes another step forward, unable to help it, as a music he knows intimately well presses down against his fiery, damaged Grace. He's approaching a second clearing, and now he can see the deer - there are three of them idling by a small pond - the male has heard him and is now looking straight at him, but the two females are simply -

And there is someone else, too. Cas sees his soul first, can almost taste the disbelief in his own mouth, because how is this _possible_? It just - it must be his mind playing tricks on him, his pain sliding into delusion and madness, it can't - but as Cas tunes out the colors and lights of his natural vision, as he looks at the world as a human would, he sees that he's not mistaken - that there is indeed someone there, a man lying low on the forest floor, his silver camera pointed at the deer, his mind a quiet jumble of ordinary thoughts, and Cas can’t -

He tries to take another step forward and falls, as if a whip had lashed against the back of his knees, sudden and sharp. He puts his hands down, feels his palms grazing, the smell of his own human blood - the noise of the man’s soul as he stands up, alarmed, and Cas - Cas can't help it - he looks straight at the man, his heart stopping and shattering and too heavy for words.

“Son of a _bitch_.”


	3. Eldritch Bunker, Charnel Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just as a heads-up - this chapter mentions some stuff about dead bodies, but there's nothing specific; also, half of it is in Sam's POV, which means some talk about him and Lucifer (again, nothing specific) and him and Toni (I want to state clearly that I consider that rape, by the way).
> 
> The crypt I’m thinking about is this kind of thing [ here ](http://ichef.bbci.co.uk/wwfeatures/wm/live/1280_640/images/live/p0/2k/rh/p02krhd0.jpg) (image is not graphic). And, whatever, I’d feel bad about introducing a secret crypt full of bodies in the Bunker, but since we now know Dean likes to make mixtapes for his ‘friends’ between episodes, I feel like there's a _lot_ of things they just keep very quiet about and we should all take advantage of that. Hell, for all we know Dean and Cas _did_ braid Sam’s hair after watching that home-made demon torture movie back in S10 and Tuesday's karaoke night, so.
> 
> Anyway - I hope you'll enjoy this chapter and I apologize for the delay - real life can be annoying sometimes. **If you're waiting for updates and you're wondering if I'm alive or dead, remember that I talk about my writing on[ my tumblr ](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/), so please check and/or ask me stuff there.**

“Sam? Sammy, wake up.”

Dean pats Sam’s knee, checks the mirror again.

“What? Are we home?”

Man, Sam looks about six like this, his stupid hair all over the place, his eyes still puffy with dreams.

“We’ve got a problem,” Dean says, and just like that, his brother - _turns_ , as if a switch had been activated inside him. He sits up straighter, fishes in the paper bag for that half bottle of coffee Dean’s actually drained three hours ago. “Yeah, that’s gone. But there’s caffeine pills in the glove compartment. And do me a favor - check out that car behind us. I can’t see the driver in this damn light.”

Sam ignores him, and, goddammit, Dean remembers a split second too late he shouldn’t have mentioned those damn pills - Sam mostly uses them when Lucifer’s around, and now it’s not the time to dredge any of that up. _Fuck_. Dean glances at his brother, sees Sam turn around, squint at the dark road behind them.

“Doesn’t look familiar,” he says, and he sounds sane enough that Dean lets go of the half-assed apology already on his lips.

“That’s what I thought,” he says instead, clearing his throat. “Can you see anything?”

“No. But if they’re following us, they’re not hiding it. Look at them - they’re much too close. Are you sure -”

“I’m sure.”

Dean doesn’t want to say more about it, because he’s been sloppy and stupid - he doesn’t even know when that car started tailing him, and the reason he doesn’t is he can’t stand to look into that damn mirror. Cas still looks asleep or something - must be a vessel thing, and yay for creepy silver linings, because the last thing Dean wants to do tonight is, like, deal with an actual body and break Cas’ legs to get him out of the car and it looks like that won’t be necessary, but still - it just _hurts_ , Jesus Christ, because he fucking _remembers_ what that’s like - looking at Cas in the backseat, and the way Cas would look back at him, sometimes all pissy and adorable and sometimes with that thing on his face - a scrunchy-eyed wonder, like Cas was doing math in his head, or hatching some kind of plan, and Dean -

“So, what do we do about it?”

“Hand grenade,” Dean says, shortly, looking away from the mirror.

“ _What?_ ”

“Ketch had a bunch of expensive toys on him - I just took a few as a souvenir.”

“Why do you sound like a serial killer?”

“Because I _am_ a serial killer,” Dean answers, without even thinking about it, and it was supposed to be some sort of joke - except, of course, it isn’t.

Sam glances at him. “You could be the kind of serial killer who doesn’t stash explosive devices under my ass, but okay.”

“They’re not under _your_ ass, they’re under mine.”

Grumbling, Sam reaches back, drags a duffel bag from under Dean’s seat. It’s just an old thing Dean picked up at random, and Sam makes a disapproving noise when he sees the weapons inside - God, he’s always such a damn _prude_ \- he’s happy with spells and cursed blades and whatever else is shiny and magical, but give him any old-ass gun and there he is, scoffing and rolling his eyes as if -

Dead is dead, for Chrissakes. How does it matter how it happened?

(Except it does, of course, and Dean clenches his jaw, pushes the thought out of his mind.)

“So what’s the plan? Do you want me to throw one of these things right into their windshield?” Sam asks, his voice dripping sarcasm. He’s holding up one of the grenades, and it’s just a grenade, okay? A regular old thing, human-made, without any runes or gold dust or whatever the fuck else.

And it will do the job just _fine_.

“No,” Dean says, almost offended, as if he hadn’t considered doing just that at least twice in the past hour. “If they wanted us dead, they would have run us off the road or something. But I’m not leading them to the Bunker if I can avoid it, so.”

“Dean, everybody knows where the Bunker is.”

“Not the point. And that’s not true.”

Dean can almost _feel_ Sam roll his eyes.

“Lucifer does. And the Brits, or whoever’s left of them. And Crowley does. Did,” he adds, and his next sentence comes out all quick and jumbled, so it’s obvious he’s trying to change the subject. “Just park anywhere, then. I can talk to them and you can cover me.”

Dean pretends to ignore the awkward shift.

“Why do _you_ get to talk to them? Maybe they’re strippers.”

“ _Dean_ -” Sam starts, and it’s not clear if he’s apologetic or fed up. Dean doesn’t want to find out.

“Come on - get your gun out, and keep that grenade where you can reach it. We’re doing okay on the not dying front lately, and I wanna keep it that way.”

Without further warning, Dean slows down and stops, swerving right in the middle of the road so Sam will have a better vantage point. And then, leaving the engine running, he simply opens the door and gets out.

“I’m here,” he shouts, moving his arms so the car behind them will see him. “Hello?”

He can hear Sam getting out as well, can hear the broken litany of half curses he’s spitting out, and he knows his brother’s right - there were a hundred better ways to do this, but right now Dean doesn’t give a fuck - he wants to get home and take something and sleep for a damn _week_ , and if he’s got to kill someone to do so, he’ll fucking -

The car, a massive dark van, stop at about sixty feet from them, and when the driver gets out, Dean is momentarily thrown by their size - much smaller than he’d anticipated - and how the person simply starts walking towards him, no weapons in sight, and then -

“Dean Samuel Winchester!”

The voice cuts through the darkness like a gunshot, and Dean brings his hand up to shield his eyes from the van’s lights.

“Jody?” he asks, wonderingly.

“Don’t _Jody_ me! I’ve been trying to reach you both for two _days_ \- what the _hell_ is wrong with you? Why don’t you keep your damn _phones_ on?”

Jody almost never swears, and the sound of her anger seems to spur Sam to action - Dean can hear him walk around the car, almost cringes at his brother’s awkward attempts to greet Jody before -

“God above, is that a hand _grenade_? What the _hell_? What have you boys done now? Where’s your mother?” Taking Dean by surprise, Jody walks forward and hugs him tightly. “You’re _such_ an idiot,” she adds, before moving to hug Sam, her eyes on the grenade Sam is now trying to conceal from her. “Seriously - just answer -”

“Mine died,” Sam says quickly, because he always was a treacherous little snitch and that’s not changing anytime soon, “but Dean told me his was on, so I didn’t -”

“Yeah, I turned it off.”

“Why would you do that?”

_Because everybody we care about is dead, so who the hell would call me?_ is on the tip of Dean’s tongue, but he can’t get the sentence out, not when Jody is looking at him the way she is, all worried and angry and reaching out, a bit distractedly, to touch him again, and Dean knows that need - that drive to make sure, completely _certain_ , that you’re not seeing things and that person you love is actually alive and well.

“What are you doing here? How did you find us?” he asks instead, and Jody shakes her head.

“Your mother called me. Told me to keep an eye on the two of you.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Well - she wanted to apologize for - you know - what she said when she was under,” she adds, and now she’s a bit uncomfortable - as she looks away from them, checking her van, Dean hears Mary’s voice in his head, cold and cruel - _You wanna play mother to my son? He's all yours_. “And then she added something about a portal, and things being more complicated than she expected - she must have dropped her phone somewhere in your car, because I was able to track the GPS.”

Sam pushes his hair back, makes a weird sound that could be laughter.

“Man, I can’t _believe_ she did that.”

“That’s some Bond level bullshit,” Dean agrees, and since Sam really doesn’t look okay, he pries the grenade from his hand and walks back to the car - he’s not about to get blown up just because his stupid kid brother -

“Dean, what the hell is going on?” Jody asks, before Sam can start a debate on how he’s old enough to handle his own goddamn weapons, and _Dean, for fuck’s sake_ , and that’s the good part; the less good part is that she’s followed him, and now she’s seen Cas, and _goddammit_. “Wait - is that Castiel?”

Something loud and heavy crashes down on Dean as he realizes Jody doesn’t, in fact, know Cas. It seems so unlikely - unthinkable - because Sam and Dean normally drop by once every two months or so for a roast chicken and a Bill Murray evening and God, Claire _lives_ with the woman - that’s how Jody knows Cas’ face - because Dean’s seen Claire room, knows there’s a picture of her parents right on her bedside table - and he can’t deal with this, is beyond grateful when he hears Sam step in, his hissy fit apparently gone and forgotten.

“Sort of. It’s complicated. Why don’t we just - we can talk at the Bunker,” he adds, as if things will get less complicated there, and fuck, of course they won’t, Dean can see it from here.

(Jesus, when do they _ever_.) 

# ...

“So, uhm.” Sam clears his throat. “What do we tell Jody?”

Dean grunts, shifts in his seat.

“What do we know?” he says, after a while. “Fuck all, that’s what.”

Sam looks at his brother then; wonders if he himself looks as beaten and tired as Dean does. He catches Dean glance up at the mirror, doesn’t mention it.

What would be the point?

“She could help us with Jack,” he offers, and nothing changes on Dean’s face, not exactly - Sam follows his familiar profile in the near darkness, thinks it reminds him of John, of his father’s jaw clenching and unclenching as they drove through the night and John fought to stay awake. He immediately feels disloyal at the thought, pushes it down. Thinking about his father - that’s not something he needs right now. And he knows he shouldn’t have started this discussion, either, knows what Dean will make of it. He looks away, unwilling to see Dean’s exhaustion and sadness and worry turn into self-hatred and anger, but he hears those thing in Dean’s voice all the same.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s feed her into a meat grinder. Why not. We’ve put everyone else on the line, after all. Girl’s gotta pay her dues.”

“Dean, I didn’t mean -”

“We’re still two hours out,” Dean says, abruptly, and of course, that means _Shut up_ , and Sam knows all of those signals like the back of his hand - Dean turning up the volume, Dean suddenly talking about food and porn, Dean offering to take first watch - that’s his brother pushing him away, again and again and again, and Sam knows the drill.

Doesn’t mean he has to _like_ it, though.

On the other hand, he’s got his own things he’d rather not talk about, so he can’t fault Dean for not wanting to share with the class.

(Does Dean really think that Cas’ alive, wherever he is? That Mom survived?)

They must be in almost Kansas by now, but the world around them is too dark to recognize much at all. Sam sighs and adjusts his legs into a half comfortable position. He considers doing the right thing (being a dick) for a second, pointing out he’s actually not all that tired and they should talk about this; forces himself to let that go. Sometimes he feels he and Dean spent years and years having the same three arguments about who gets the bed and _Where do we eat_ and _It’s my turn to drive, Dean, you jerk_ , and if there’s one thing he knows is that they’re both tired of arguing. 

And this can wait til tomorrow.

There’s nothing they can do for Mom or Cas right now, after all.

Sam tries to close his eyes, but he can still feel it - two feet to his left, his brother is completely silent, but there’s worry and resentment and sadness beaming out of him like loud noise. Sam turns his head, fears, only for a moment, Dean’s even stopped breathing so as to not give him any kind of opening; thinks, again, that Dean is just like Dad, waiting for them to be asleep to he could step out of the room and slide to the floor and sob - half finished, dry things Sam remembers vaguely, as through mist ( _Dean? - ‘S just a bad dream, Sammy. Go back to sleep._ ). The usual, worn out annoyance flashes hot and cold through his entire body, because my _God_ , why are they like this, and why does Dean always feel like he has to carry everything himself?

_Oh, Sammy, you know why_ , says Lucifer’s voice in his mind, and Sam almost bites through his lips, presses his palms together, passing his thumb on the old scar.

_Shut up_ , he thinks, _shut up shut up shut -_

But it’s too late, of course. Sam never says anything, and he mostly doesn’t think about it, but the memories never faded - in fact, in some bizarre, unfair twist of fate, they seem to become more vivid and colorful with every passing week, and it doesn’t help that Lucifer he’s back, that he’s -

( _put his hands on me and smiled at me and_ )

\- so _close_ , that there’s a new piece of him in the world - over the last few months, Sam has thought, on and off, that he could sense Jack’s presence spreading out, shining his curious light not only on the world, but on _him_ , specifically - had to remind himself, more than once, that a Nephilim doesn’t need a vessel and Lucifer doesn’t want him anymore and it’s impossible, all of it - that he can’t hear Lucifer and he can’t hear Lucifer’s unborn child, either, because he’s _normal_ , okay, because those powers went away and he’s _fine_ and everything is -

Sam only realizes he’s fallen asleep when Dean shakes him awake, and for a second, he actually panics, Lucifer’s eyes still on the back of his eyelids, flickering between extreme gentleness and careless cruelty - he sits up, grabs his brother’s arm.

“Are we,” he says, and he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. He stares at his brother instead, tries to get his thoughts under control.

Lucifer is gone. Mom is gone. Cas is gone. Dean is safe.

He breathes out.

Dean reaches out, as if to check for fever, then seemingly changes his mind, lets his hand drop. He frees his arm from Sam’s grasp, lightly, as if everyone’s a freak when they wake up and it’s not big deal. Gets the key out of the ignition.

“We’re home,” he says, simply, and Sam sits up straighter, opens the door.

The garage is never all that welcoming, but right now it’s downright lugubrious. The artificially bright light makes the sigils on the walls look like blood, and Sam looks away.

“Is Jody coming in this way?”

“Nah. I think she’ll park by the door.” 

“Good. Okay.”

They sit in silence. Sam wants to talk about Mom, needs to get out of his own head for a few minutes, wants to avoid, more than anything, any question about his nightmares and Lucifer and whatever else - not that Dean will ask, because Dean’s gotten better at not asking, but still.

The thing is, though, that talking about Mom means coming to terms with the fact she’s dead. She _must_ be dead. In fact, that’s the best alternative there, because if she’s trapped in that place with Lucifer - if -

“I should go meet her,” Dean says, without moving, and Sam pushes his own hair back, tries to breathe.

He’s okay.

(They can’t both fall apart.)

He’s _fine_.

“Yeah. And, you know - if you want -” He glances at Dean, then half turns, acknowledging the body in the back seat. 

Dean doesn’t say anything.

“I can do it,” Sam says in the end, and he expects Dean to say he’ll do it, but that never comes.

Instead, Dean taps his fingers on the wheel, once, twice, three times, as if chasing some invisible melody, then shakes his head.

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead. Just check you’ve got the right sigils, all that crap.”

Surprised, Sam nods, remains there another moment as Dean gets out of the car, slams the door shut and walks away.

“I’m fine,” he says, after a while, just to hear the words out loud. 

He gets out of the car, then, walks back to the passenger door, opens it. Puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder, is taken aback by how - _normal_ it feels. He was expecting _rigor mortis_ to have set in by now, but, well - Jimmy’s was never a normal body, and it’s possible Grace would -

Sam makes a mental note to ask Cas about it before realizing how absurd that is, how Cas -

But Dean’s right - Sam’s sure of it. If he says this is not - _their_ Cas, then it’s not. 

(Because if anyone would know what Cas carries around in the pockets of his trench coat, it’s Dean, and let’s go with that.) 

But all the same - it’s hard to look at this person, at this body, and now Dean’s gone Sam finally allows himself to let in the grief - grief for his mother, mostly, but also for Cas, because this is still Cas, in almost every way that matters, this will _always_ be Cas - and how likely is it they’ll manage to get back to that place - and what if they’re too late, what if -

_Worrying is like a rocking horse_ , Sully used to say, and Sam always replied, _Yeah? I never had one of those, so_. And Sully would smile at him in that way he had, because _I think you know what I meant, Sam. Just - don’t try to do it all at once. Nobody can do everything all at once, but you’re not nobody - you’re the one and only Sam Winchester, you’re -_

“Come on,” Sam says, and he doesn’t know if he’s talking to Cas or to himself. He bends into the car, gets his other hand on Cas’ hip and pulls the body into a fireman’s lift. 

It’s lighter than he anticipated.

As he walks to the crypt, he tries not to think about what he’s actually doing - he forces his thoughts on what comes next instead - Jody will need a bed for the night, and the guest room should be clean, because Dean had washed the sheets the same day Eileen had left and -

(Eileen smiling at him. Eileen reaching out, moving his fingers for him, correcting his signing. Eileen in his arms, a warm, solid weight of comfort and quiet joy.)

Sam adjusts the body more securely, grits his teeth.

Nobody lives forever. Not him, not Dean, not anybody. That’s life, and he won’t - he can’t -

I _live forever, Sam. And you could have seen eternity with me. Beautiful and delicate and ice-cold. Time is a wondrous thing, you know._

The voice is precise, accurate, the vowels and consonants and lilt of every syllable just so, and Sam doesn’t even know by now if this is a memory, or his own mind talking to him; madness or grief or loneliness. Sometimes he still catches Lucifer’s figure just out of sight, the careless loping of him appearing and disappearing in the corner of his vision, but mostly it’s just - this. Just words, so regretful and quiet they almost ring true.

But they’re not.

_I loved you, you know. I truly did._

They never were.

Sam stops for a second, tried to focus on the here and now, because they’ve got enough problems without - without this. 

The guest room is clean, he tells himself. Or, clean enough. That’s the most important thing right now. And they should have a carton of eggs left for tomorrow morning. Maybe some ham. Two of his organic cherry yoghurts, if Dean hasn’t thrown them out.

Also, they’ll need to do something about Toni and Ketch.

Sam stops by the door of the crypt, raises his left hand, cuts his palm on the hidden blade by the hinges.

_Paranoid bastards_ , Dean had said, when they’d figured out how the mechanism worked, but the thing always made sense to Sam. In theory, only a Man of Letters should have a key to the Bunker, but keys could be stolen. Living, willing blood, on the other hand - slightly harder.

The door swings open, and the lights inside the cavernous room turn on automatically - not the blue white lights of the rest of the Bunker, but library lamps, shaded and soft, placed at strategic intervals so that it’d be bright enough to move around and yet not - disrespectful, or something. 

_This is a whole other level of creepy_ , Dean had said, but Sam likes it. In some respects, the room’s no different than a library - there are a few desks, and those green-shaded lamps, and even books - diaries, mostly, but also people’s personal belongings - collections of poetry, pulp novels, Dickens - and the general effect is - peaceful. Serene, even, if you disregard the dead bodies, all perfectly preserved, lying behind layers and layers of protective, enchanted glass.

Sam’s been curious about the purpose of it all - if the builders of this place had thought people could be brought back from the dead, or if it’s all that remains of a very old tradition - a European thing, maybe - but there had been no time to research this at all.

Truth be told, he’s not sure he’s _allowed_ to do this - just pick an empty slot and charm Cas’ body inside - but what choice do they have?

As he walks, he wonders if they should put Toni and Ketch here as well. They were Men of Letters, after all, and it would solve the problem - Dean’s not about to stash their bodies in the Impala and drive six hours to some secluded place to dump them, that’s for sure.

On the other hand - yeah.

Another lamp turns on in front of him, making the room more defined, more real, and Sam realizes with jolt that Toni’s the last person he slept with.

Not that he _slept_ with her, technically, but the memories are still there - her blonde hair turning almost red in candlelight; her hands cupping his face, soft and loving. _I know it’s difficult Sam. Let it go, now. I’m here for you._

Sam’s never said anything, about any of it - he’d seen Dean glance at him those first few weeks, watching for - Sam doesn’t even know.

(Or, pretends he doesn’t - easier that way.) 

And with Mom back, it had seemed - childish, maybe, to focus on the bad stuff. And, whatever - they’d both been hurt before, and this wasn’t - this -

Lucifer had said the same thing, though. _Let it go, now. I’m here for you._ He’d said with Jess’ voice, Sam thinks, as he finally finds an empty slot in the wall and stops, Cas’ body suddenly too heavy, uncomfortably unstable on his shoulder.

Had Toni _known_ about that? And _how_?

Sam sets the body down, keeps it upright against his chest as he keys a number into the old-fashioned control panel.

_I want you to burn me_ , Dean had said that first night, as they wandered among the corpses. _I’m serious, Sam - you put me in here, I’ll come back and haunt the_ fuck _out of you._

The glass clicks open.

Sam takes a step back, lifts the body inside the concrete coffin, as gently as he can; and as wonders if he should say a few words, it finally hits him.

The body looks just like Cas, because it _is_ Cas. It’s the same creature that Sam’s been praying to every day of his life, and he’s the same person who once looked at him, serious and worried, and said _Nothing is worth losing you. Nothing_. It’s _Cas_ , and it’s a dead body, Grace and life gone from his face and soul - it’s lying down now, and those clothes - the old trench coat, the cheap slacks - look even more out of place than usual next to the other bodies - rows and rows of Men of Letters in their finest evening wear.

Sam tucks in the lapels of the coat, straightens the tie. Tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter, because their Cas never cared, and it’s likely this one didn’t, either, but, of course, that’s not what’s bothering him.

This is Cas.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says in the empty room. “I, uhm. I don’t know what you were doing here, where you came from and I hope - Cas, I hope you had a good life. You know. Before.”

In that world where they were never born; in that world of war and ruin. 

Sam passes a hand on Cas’ face, as if in blessing, wonders if Cas was fighting on their side in that world too (on Bobby’s; on Mary’s). He wonders if someone else had changed his mind, the way Dean -

“I hope you were loved,” Sam says, in a whisper, and he’s embarrassed now, too tall and too stupid and completely undeserving of being here, because look at this room - these people, they were all legacies and scholars and men of God, they must have been, and he and Dean - and Dean is fine, Dean is - but as for him -

_I know you loved me back. I know you_ wanted _me_ , Lucifer says, and Sam dials the same numbers again, blindly, his breath coming in short, ragged pants - he paints a small sigil on the wall with his own blood, thinks he can almost feel a black, sticky wave of disapproval surging in from the bodies around him -

_I know you better than you know yourself, Sam. You were made for_ me.

\- places his red and sticky palm on the glass, briefly, in a sort of goodbye, then turns and almost runs from the room, the long succession of glass cases glittering and blurring in the corner of his vision - he wipes his eyes, angrily, because he _won’t_ \- because that’s not _true_ , and it’s _over_ , and Dean needs him right now and _Fuck it_ -

Sam seals the crypt almost in a daze, walks back to the kitchen, thoughts and memories and vague hopes haunting his every step. He mostly doesn’t understand where it all went wrong, doesn’t get why they couldn’t all work together, why the Brits came after them, why Toni had to hurt him even though they were on the same side. He doesn’t know what Lucifer wants, is _terrified_ by that one short look he’s exchanged with Jack Kline, because he’d thought - he’d thought this thing would have a human soul and could be reasoned with, but if that kid is truly Lucifer’s, if he’s got Lucifer’s eyes and Lucifer’s heart, then Sam - and he’s _killed_ people - people, not vamps and not ghouls, just regular people, and he knows Dean will pretend that’s not a big deal, but Sam - Sam wants a cup of the stronger coffee he can make, and he wants to chat with Jody and Dean about anything at all, because he needs to drown Lucifer’s words out of his mind and he needs to mute those memories he has of sitting down at that same kitchen table with Eileen, of looking into her eyes and wondering -

He’s just outside the map room when he hears two people talking, and whatever is in Dean’s voice, it makes Sam stop at once, his left hand still closed into a fist, his fingernails worrying the edge of the white, faded scar on his palm, making the new scar bleed and bleed and bleed.

“You know how you said you’d - listen?”

Sam remains where he is, his mind suddenly blank.

“I think I need to - uhm - can we talk?”

Sam doesn’t need to wait there to know Jody will say yes, and there’s more to it - this is a conversation that will be long and private and Dean’s given enough for today, so whatever Sam needs, it can wait. He should have some caffeine pills back in his room, and his other laptop’s there - there’s papers to read, work to do, and he might as well start now, do something useful with his time - walk it all off, and forget - just forget.


	4. Through the Looking-Glass

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” the man says, and then, before Cas can say anything back, before Cas can even comprehend what is going on, he gets to his feet, his camera forgotten, his hands displayed in front of him in a gesture that could be surrender or rage. “I didn’t do anything,” he says, loudly, and the deer run to safety, disappear through the trees. “I didn’t break _any_ of your stupid rules, so you can fuck right _off_ and tell - and tell -”

“Dean, I’m not -”

Cas can’t finish the sentence. He’s _horrified_ by the fear and hatred in Dean’s voice - because he may not know this man, but this is still utterly, completely, heartbreakingly _Dean_ \- Cas stops, blinks, drinks him in - he’s the same age as the man Cas left behind, but he looks years younger - his face rounder, somehow, healthier. 

(He looks like a man who sleeps eight hours a night and gets three meals a day - a man no one is hunting down; also a man who’s not hunting down anything himself.

The thought is strangely painful.)

“I mean you no harm,” Cas says. He gets to his feet, then, hold his hands out, palms up, mimicking Dean’s stance.

Dean takes a step back.

“I don’t _care_ what you mean,” he says, and there it is again - he’s upset and unhappy, but mostly afraid. “Don’t - don’t come any closer.”

It shouldn’t hurt so much - Dean not knowing him, Dean _fearing_ him - because Cas knows perfectly well this is not the person he left behind, the man he fought and died for. This is someone else, and he doesn’t know Cas, and that is okay.

The storm above them grumbles again, but Cas barely hears it. He’s still looking at Dean, slipping from his human eyes to his true vision, unable to help or to control the shift - there’s a hunting rifle on the ground, but Dean has not made a move towards it, and he’s not carrying any other weapon except for a small pocket knife. There is an uneaten lunch in his backpack - home-made bread, a thick slice of cheese, and two brownies - and also a book - Vonnegut, Cas sees, and then he forces himself to step back, rein himself in, because this is not _his_ Dean and Cas has no right to -

“I’m not,” he says, opening his arms wider, but then he’s distracted, again, by the loud colors of Dean’s soul - there is his love for Sam, as vibrant as ever, sweet on the tongue, and over it there is more love - layers and layers of it nesting one on top of each other like sleepy mice - a tender, soft, nearly unbearable sight. Cas always knew Dean’s ability to love was unconventionally developed, but to actually see his soul flower and blossom with it is a true gift, because his Dean - maybe the truth is, there aren’t enough people in his life for his soul to look just so _loud_ , so powerfully -

Dean takes another step back. He eyes his camera, still on the ground, licks his lips as he considers his rifle and backpack. He’s clearly wondering if he should run for it - trying to outguess Cas, understand if Cas is going to chase him, if Cas _can_ chase him, because he’s looking at Cas now, his gaze not on Cas’ face, but above and beyond it; and now, his expression softens. There is still fear there, and anger, but also -

If Cas didn’t know better, he’d think Dean was looking at his broken wings.

“Is Sammy okay? You _promised_ ,” Dean says next, his eyes moving to Cas’ again, his hands closing into fists by his sides.

Cas has no connection to Sam’s soul. He could not find Sam, even if he wanted to. He dislikes the idea of lying to Dean, but, on the other hand, he has no reason to suspect there’s anything wrong with this Sam - Cas is not here about him, and this world seems peaceful, unencumbered by war.

“Your brother is fine,” Cas says in the end, choosing expediency over complete honesty. 

Dean is visibly relaxed by this announcement; his hands uncurl, and his eyes flicker back up to the empty space above Cas’ shoulders. He frowns, seems about to ask something else, changes his mind.

Cas watches on as Dean’s soul slowly fades and reforms itself: no longer panic, then, and only the slightest hint of anger. It’s not ideal, but Cas can hardly expect more.

“Dean, I can see you don’t know me, and I hate to ask for your help, but - I am in need of Holy Oil. Do you know where I could find some?”

Cas remains where he is, bows his head slightly, making himself as unthreatening as he can. Breathes in, then out.

“I thought that stuff could kill angels,” Dean says in the end, the resentment in his voice turning to unwilling curiosity.

“It can. It can also heal us,” Cas replies; and then, before he can think better of it, the question that’s been burning and burning inside his mouth slips out. “How do you know what I am?”

Dean looks him up and down, then; crosses his arms across his chest.

“You said you’d leave me alone,” he says, after a long silence. “You said if I did it, I’d never have to see one of you bastards again.”

Cas says nothing.

Dean kneels down, gets his camera, stuffs it inside his backpack. He picks up his rifle next, and his hand contracts around the barrel, as if he’s considering pointing it at Cas and just shoot him - but he knows, of course, that it would be useless. Cas watches as Dean licks his lips again, shoulders the rifle, stands up to face him.

“I don’t owe you a _damn_ thing,” he says, his voice low.

“In my world, you like to sleep with the light on,” Cas says, and he doesn’t know why he’s saying it - something on this man’s face, the soft colors of his soul, are making him ache deep inside. “You never want me to walk inside your dreams, but you will accept small tokens of consolation after a nightmare - you will take my arm when you first see me, as if to anchor yourself. Pretend you don’t know I’m using that light touch to heal you, make the bad memories go away.”

Dean freezes.

“You insist you like your coffee black, but you don’t. You desperately want a normal life, but you feel trapped and anxious when you’re not on the road; you’re drowned by other people’s love for you, because you feel you don’t deserve it.”

The rain starts to come down harder, and Cas is momentarily distracted by the quiet music of the raindrops falling in the stream, of that sky water mixing with ground water, molecules and wide spaces turning and twisting in the tiny eddies of the creek.

“You once told me you hated how much Sam loves you, because you can’t breathe under the weight of it; you know, you _fear_ , you’ll never be good enough for him, measure up with the person you are inside his head.”

Dean stares at him for another long second, then seems to realize it’s raining; he looks up, distractedly wipes his face clean.

“Who _are_ you?”

“I thought you could see me?”

“Yeah, I see your -” Dean gestures vaguely, and, again, Cas is desperate to find out what it is that Dean sees, exactly - because spying on an angel’s true form - that should be impossible for any human, and yet there’s something - _titillating_ , almost, in the idea Dean can finally and truly _see_ him. “I know what you are. But -”

Dean seems lost for words. His eyes are still a bit off center, seemingly fixed on those wings he shouldn’t be able to see, and Cas forces himself to let go of his own curiosity and focus on more urgent things.

“I’m not from here,” he says. “I come from another dimension, and in that dimension, you and I are - friends.”

Cas hesitates on the word, and Dean hears it, shakes his head slightly, and he’s clearly thinking that _no way_ , that angels are not to be trusted, that he would never, in a million years, be friends with one of them; doesn’t know that Cas’ hesitation comes from the other end of the spectrum, that Cas wanted a more meaningful word, and hasn’t found it. 

(Maybe there isn’t one. Not in English, not in any other language he understands.)

“ _Please_ , Dean. I believe you - your other self - I don’t know what he’s facing, but I need to help him. I need to get _back_ to him.”

The rain is falling harder now, and Cas hears the trees’ distant grumbling, how they slowly shift and adjust their leaves and branches and needles and whisper among themselves. He knows the deer have long since found shelter, wonders about Dean - what is he doing in this forest alone? Where does he live, and with whom?

A feeling he doesn’t recognize and doesn’t want to name suddenly flares up inside him. Cas squashes it down.

This person doesn’t know him.

This person owes him _nothing_.

No, this is someone who sees angels and yet fears them, which means Cas shouldn’t expect -

“Your blade,” Dean says, sharply, and he reaches his right hand out, palm up.

Cas doesn’t hesitate. He shakes his weapon into being, flips it over, offers it to Dean, handle first. He can sense how surprised Dean is by his quiet, immediate surrender of it; can tell it makes him warier still. He just stays there, unmoving, as Dean takes a cautious step forward and takes the blade from him. He watches as Dean’s finger close on the handle - as Dean looks at it in unwilling fascination before sliding it through his belt.

“Holy Oil - I can get you some. Just - wait there,” he says, and he takes another step back, his eyes never leaving Cas as he pries a phone out of his pocket, punches in a number, almost angrily, and next, Cas hears half of a hurried conversation, _Can you_ and _Thanks_ , and _Don’t worry about me_ , and the thing is, he _could_ listen to the other half of it and put the pieces together and he also wants to, because he wants to make sure this Dean, at least, is okay and happy -

(needs to know the person Dean is talking to is _not_ \- is -)

\- but he holds back, all the same. He’s taken so much from Dean already - he won’t invade his privacy as well.

“No, I’ll probably sleep at the cabin,” Dean says in the end, and then frowns as he listen to a lengthy reply. “No, there’s nothing - I _know_ , okay? This is something else.”

Cas is focusing so hard on not listening that he doesn’t notice Dean hanging up, Dean coming towards him, circling around him. He hears the curse, though, feels the welcome warmth of Dean’s fingers on his back.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Some kind of trap. I don’t actually know,” Cas says, and suppresses a hiss as Dean’s other hand touches his ruined skin, presses down on one of the burns. “Please, be careful.”

Dean stops touching him at once, comes back into his field of vision.

“How can you not know?” he asks, and there’s something so endearingly familiar in his voice - that angry tone of reproach, the exasperation, because Dean won’t take care of himself but is always, inevitably _furious_ when others do the same - that Cas almost smiles.

“I was - distracted,” he says.

Dean doesn’t look impressed.

“Can you walk? Because I ain’t carrying you.”

“Yes, I can walk.”

Dean passes a hand on the back of his neck, sighs.

“So not a good idea,” he mumbles; then he looks up again, adjusts his backpack more firmly on his shoulders. “Just - follow me, okay? And don’t kill me.”

His soul’s changed again. He’s still unsettled, but mostly at himself now, as if he knows he’s taking a stupid risk but simply can’t do otherwise - doesn’t have it within himself to turn his back on someone (something) who’s injured and alone. Cas has found, to his surprise, that his opinion on Dean’s determination to help others has shifted over the years. He still considers it noble, he still admires Dean for it, but what he had first considered from the safe distance of a soldier on a mission he is now viewing as - as a _friend_ ; and the certainty that Dean will put himself on danger, at any moment, in every universe, for people he doesn’t know - now, it mostly worries Cas. And as he walks behind Dean, his steps a bit shorter than usual so as to avoid the worst of the pain, he finds himself almost fretting over the man he left behind - have Dean and Sam found Jack yet? Are they trying to find a way back to that other world, a way back to Cas? And what about Lucifer? Cas doesn’t know what happened to him, doesn’t even know where Lucifer is, doesn’t -

“You okay there?”

Dean has stopped, is waiting for him.

Cas forces himself to snap out of his dark thoughts, start walking again.

“I apologize. I have a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, and there it is again: the barely there flicker of his gaze to Cas’ wings, then down again. “We’ve still got about a mile to go.”

“You are a hunter, then?” Cas asks, and Dean shakes his head, turns around, takes a few step along the stream before checking Cas is following.

“Not anymore,” he says, curtly, but Cas needs to keep him talking - he needs to be distracted, because if he stops and considers the dangers the other world, _his_ world, is facing - Cas has seen a vast, good-natured placidity in Jack’s unborn spirit, but also a power so terrifying he can hardly comprehend it, and Dean - hot-tempered, exasperating, _winsome_ Dean - Dean will want to prod at it, as children do at caterpillars and crabs and spiky flowers, and this is dangerous, this is -

“Why not?” he asks, almost desperately.

The forest is silent around them, the sounds of the rain muffled by the tall trees. Cas thinks Dean won’t answer, is about to ask him another question, anything, when Dean speaks again.

“I’m just out,” he says, his voice flat. “Sammy too.”

Cas can tell Dean didn’t mean to share that bit of information with him; it just slipped out as a kind of justification.

“Still have some shit lyin’ around, though,” Dean adds. “I just keep it up here, because -”

He never finishes his sentence.

“So - you live around here?”

Dean doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders tense.

“Something like that.”

“What about Sam?”

The movement is sudden, and Cas is weakened by his injuries and worried half out of his mind - Dean is on him before he can decide whether he wants to react - Dean is _threatening_ him, close and personal, pressing Cas’ own blade against his neck.

“We’re not _friends_ ,” he hisses, backing Cas against a tree so hard Cas nearly cries out, the thorns still caught in his skin twisting and burning. “I said I’d help you, but I don’t _like_ you and I don’t _trust_ you, so you stay the fuck away from my _family_ , you get that? You stay - the _fuck_ \- away.”

Dean pushes the blade closer and closer to Cas’ skin, and Cas lets him, his hands by his sides, his mind deliberately blank as he fights against the pain.

“I didn’t,” he says in the end, “I mean - I get it. Whatever you want.”

_I love Sam_ , he wants to say, _and I love you. I would never - I would_ die _before I hurt either one of you._

But, of course, he can’t say that.

Dean takes one last long, hard look at him before stepping back and turning away, and this time he doesn’t stop to check if Cas is following - he simply walks on and on in the slowly darkening forest, Cas stumbling and limping a good twenty feet behind him, and when they finally come in sight of a hunting cabin, Dean waits for an agonizingly long time before bending down, turning a stone in his hands and scratching a bit of a sigil off so Cas can make his way into the edge of the property.

“Thank you,” he says, quietly, but Dean says nothing. He simply gestures at Cas to wait, then gets a sharpie out of his pocket, redraws the sigil and repositions the stone so it sits snugly next to the others - a nearly invisible barrier, but an effective one nonetheless.

“I thought you said you didn’t hunt anymore,” Cas adds, as they make their way to the front door, and Dean shrugs.

“Doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” he answers, his voice still a straight line of anger - at Cas, and, mostly, at himself. “Doesn’t mean I want anyone getting their hands on my stuff.”

There are more sigils painted on the door, and Dean looks Cas up and down, as if assessing how many of them he’ll need to void, before kneeling on the porch, his pocket knife out, and carefully erasing two thin lines of paint.

“Come on,” he says, tersely, as he stands up again and pushes the door open.

Cas privately wonders about the lack of normal locks, but walks in all the same; and Dean - Dean throws a last look at the line of trees, as if expecting to see something monstrous emerging from them, and then he steps inside the cabin as well, his soul lighting up in worry and something very close to self-reproach. For a brief moment, the love he carries shines brighter than ever, and it’s suddenly very clear to Cas there are people waiting for Dean to come home, people Dean _knows_ he should put first because he loves them and they need him, people he fears he will never see again because he was stupid enough to invite an angel into his life, make himself easy prey - because he has forgotten every rule in the book, because you can’t trust anyone, because if something’s not human -

“I will _not_ hurt you,” Cas says, and he wants to step closer to Dean, he wants to hug this man and never let go. “I will _never_ hurt you.”

Possibly Dean hears it - the anguish, the honesty in Cas’ voice, because he looks down, passes a hand on the back of his neck in that way he does when he’s embarrassed.

“Yeah, just - get out of my way, okay? I need -” He gestures vaguely at the exact spot Cas is standing on, and Cas moves, goes to stand by the window, watches as Dean puts down his backpack (but not the rifle, and not the blade), lights some old fashioned gas lamps, shuffles the thick rug with his boot, uncovering a trapdoor.

The security measures for the underground room are complex. Cas tries not to stare as Dean curses at lock after lock and cuts himself and spits on the wood - it takes him ten minutes to get everything open, and when he does, he pauses, looks at Cas.

“So, Holy Oil?” he snaps, and Cas is suddenly, comically reminded of a clerk in a shop, because Dean has that same moue of discontent on his face many retail workers display when asked for information about pie ingredients and the different kinds of gas.

“Maybe a set of pliers,” he replies, cautiously. “To get the thorns out.”

Dean frowns.

“Gauze and bandages?”

“I can heal my skin. Eventually.”

“How long?”

Cas shifts, tries to estimate the damage.

“Four, five hours?”

“Yeah, so gauze and bandages. I don’t want you bleeding all over my floor.”

Dean pushes the trapdoor open, revealing the entrance of a dark basement, then grabs the closest lamp; but as he’s about to go downstairs, he looks up at Cas again.

“You mean your _vessel_ ’s skin,” he says, and now he sounds almost angry. “Not _your_ skin. The skin of the poor bastard you talked into giving you a ride.”

“I meant what I said,” Cas replies, shortly, because the pain is flaring up again, and he doesn’t know how to explain everything that happened to this man who is not a hunter and has never met him and hates angels with every fiber of his being.

“Whatever,” Dean mutters, before disappearing from Cas’ sight.

Cas can hear him cursing from under the floor, can sense his soul lighting up at random moments as Dean finds weapons that remind him of past hunts; there is a sharp note of pain at one point, and Cas is about follow Dean downstairs and offer him comfort, because he knows this is all his fault and if Dean hadn’t agreed to help Cas, he would be back home right now, safe from unwanted thoughts and grief-colored memories. And Cas understands this is not the person he first met in Hell, but what holds him back is not the fact he doesn’t know this man - he does - he _does_ \- but the silent promise he made, the unspoken deal that he would let Dean help him on his, Dean’s, terms - that he would make himself as harmless as possible to Dean and his family; that he would stay where ordered to, and do what he's told. And so he swallows back Dean’s pain, endures it, just like Dean does. He waits, his heart and lungs a heavy mass inside his chest, for Dean to come back.

And finally, _finally_ , here he is - the back of his head strangely uncorporeal by the warm glow of the lamps, the few gray hair by his temples shining bright as he moves, depositing a handful of objects on the wooden floor - metal tools, bundles of fabric, and - Cas’ breath catches - a clay jar.

He will not die today.

(Dean won’t be left to wonder what happened to him, Dean won’t have to face the threats of the world without him. And Cas - Cas will -)

With short, efficient movements, Dean snaps the trap door shut, secures the main lock and pulls the carpet back; then he unfolds an old military blanket on top of it, gestures to Cas.

“Your coat,” he says, “and your shirt.”

There is a strange music in his words now, a tinge of - embarrassment, perhaps? Reluctance?

Cas toes his shoes off, steps forward, coming to stand in the centre of the blanket; but he’s only just started to take off his coat when he stops again, grimaces in pain.

“It’s stuck to the skin.” He hesitates. “Can you - cut it off me?”

Dean’s soul flares up in reds and blacks, then fades again. He looks at the exact spot where Cas’ broken wings grow from his shoulders, then away.

“Can’t you - mojo it off?” he asks, without making eye contact, and Cas shakes his head.

“My Grace is severely weakened. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, exactly, but it’s extremely, painfully _clear_ that Dean doesn’t want to do this. He’s fidgeting now, moving around the room to light yet another lamp, bringing it closer to the makeshift pallet on the floor.

“If it’s too much,” Cas says in the end, and Dean places the lamp on the stone hearth with a loud thump, talks over him.

“I'm _fine_ ,” he says, sounding anything but. He walks back to his tools, moves them around with his boot, picks up a pair of shears criss-crossed with red letters. “Just - get down on your knees.” 

Cas does, keeps his head down, his hands clasped on his lap, as if in prayer; and perhaps he _is_ praying, because he doesn’t need to look at Dean to be almost _drowned_ by the black waves of his soul - by the sudden, overwhelming shame and hurt and _want_ coursing through Dean like electric current. No, those things are loud, and bitter, and Cas wishes he could push them aside, wade through them and forget they ever existed.

(Wishes Dean wouldn’t have to stagger under their weight in the first place.

Wishes wishes themselves counted for _anything_ in this world where even hope and faith and love mostly make everything darker, not lighter - are pathetic, almost invisible specks of meaning in the mind of a God who doesn’t give a damn about any of them.)

"I'm good," Dean whispers, as if to himself, and Cas closes his eyes.


	5. Saints and Sinners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I was two days late! On the other hand, this chapter's slightly longer than I'd planned - let's hope that makes up for the delay! :)
> 
> (Watch out for drunk!Dean, a lot of swearing, internalized homophobia, John being John, and some painful Alastair memories - but nothing graphic.)

Dean looks down at his glass. He’s not quite there, but he can feel it coming - the moment when you either stop drinking and have an okay evening and you’re a half functioning human being the next day, or, fuck it, you get yourself another one and then all bets are off.

(Except it’s not really evening, so. 

Must be, what? Ten in the morning?

 _Don't know, don't care._ )

The Bunker is not silent, exactly - Dean can hear the usual low whirring of the Truman era machinery, and, occasionally, a softer rumble as the air vents do their thing, take a breather, and start again. Also, well - Sam’s walking somewhere under their feet - Dean’s listening for him, has been keeping track of what his brother’s doing - figures he’ll be in the vault by now, and it doesn’t matter, okay? It doesn’t _matter_ , because that - that _thing_ he’s burying, that’s not Cas. So, fuck it - Dean doesn’t give a _fuck_ about that.

“Dean? Are you -”

Dean shakes his head, pours himself another scotch; moves the glass around, watches as the golden liquid inside it turns and turns, almost shimmering in the half light. 

Jody’s up to speed now, or as up to speed as Dean could manage it, in a sort of _Hey, what’s new with you_ and _Okay, so Mom’s gone and Cas’ gone and we have no way of getting either of them back and who knows if they’re even alive -_

(except he’d _feel_ it, right? if Cas died - he’d - he'd - 

_Fuck_.)

\- _and oh, by the fucking way, Lucifer’s son is, like, twenty now and he’s out there somewhere and he’ll probably destroy the world. Also, I’m thinking about taking up competitive drinking, so there's that, and what about you, yeah?_

“You sure you don’t want anything?” Dean asks, looking up. “We’ve got -”

Hell, he doesn’t know. Tuna, probably. WW2 rations, and whatever, they’re not half bad, and Sam can shut up about it. 

Also Eggos.

Great.

“- or I can go out, get you something. There’s a decent Chinese a few miles down -”

“ _Dean_.”

When they’d first moved into this place, Dean had bought stuff. Not _Sam_ stuff, because kale belongs in the trash and cucumbers - yeah, Dean’s seen enough porn to know what they’re for - but still, he’d bought - _ingredients_. He’d come back from Trader Joe’s with fresh onions, for Chrissakes. Potatoes. Tomatoes and lettuce and organic milk and apples and flour, because goddammit, store-bought crust is an abomination and Dean wasn’t about -

But then - Dean doesn’t even remember. He thinks it might have been a werewolf - a string of murders down in Jackson, Ohio, but maybe it was something else. No - it had been two things, actually - back-to-back cases and a goddamn thirty hour drive and they’d very nearly gotten themselves arrested, too, because Sam had been too nice with some widow and she’d called the cops on them and by the time they’d been back, everything had gone bad - Dean had walked around the kitchen as Sam ‘updated the ledgers’, or whatever the code for whacking off was those days, and he’d picked up sprouted potatoes and expired meat and brown apples before throwing a soft tomato smack into the wall and fucking - 

(Because he’s a motherfucking _idiot_ , okay? Because this place’s not a home, and _What did you think,_ boy _? That you could turn into Martha fucking Stewart and Windex the shit out of it and make bread from scratch or some shit? Nah - this is a military bunker, and it’s not for cooking anything and it’s not for movie nights and it’s not for keeping kids and dogs in it - it’s for fucking_ war _, okay?, it’s for hiding in and dying in, and one day it’ll be your damn body Sam’s dragging into that crypt - if you’re_ lucky _, that is, if you’re not out there making those piece of shit decisions your piece of shit brain always makes when unchecked, because you’re a good fighter Dean, it’s your_ head _that’s the problem, always was, your fucking goddamned good-for-nothing_ head _\- are you_ listening _to me? Son, listen to me._

 _I’m listening, sir._ )

\- so, yeah. He hadn’t shopped again. 

No big loss, either. It’s not like he’s good at it, or anything.

“It’s okay,” Jody says, and Dean fights his way back to her, memories and nightmares fading against her words like waves do on rocks. “I’m not hungry. Maybe we can go out for lunch in a few hours? You can show me the sights?”

She’s trying to keep her voice light, and Dean has to wonder if it’s a cop thing, if that makes him the incoherent, babbling widow in this scenario. 

He should probably care about that.

(He doesn’t.)

 _Sam should be back by now_ , he thinks instead, finally taking a sip of scotch and wishing it was something even stronger. _He should be finished with - with -_

“Dean, are you okay?”

Thoughts about rows and rows of corpses rotting away in the shadows (thoughts of Cas being one of those corpses, his blue eyes blind and empty, the belt of his trench coat falling down on the dirty concrete) slide away from Dean’s brain, leaving a stench of death and nausea in their wake.

“Peachy,” he says, and he drinks again, the scotch coursing through his body like an electric shock, numbing him, waking him the fuck up.

“I can see that.”

“What are you doing here, really?” Dean asks, and he didn’t mean to sound so aggressive, and he sees at once, in the tightening of Jody’s expression, that he’s fucked up, but it’s too late to fix it now, just like everything fucking else. “What about your job? And the girls?”

Jody ignores him.

“I know your lives are hard,” she says, leaning towards him across the table, lowering her voice, “but have you ever thought about how it is for _us_? For me, for Claire, for - everyone else?”

“Jody, I -”

“ _Have_ you? Because last Friday, you recruited me to fight a _war_ , Dean. I followed your brother out and I killed people, and I lost friends.”

“I’m -”

“And then I got home and you were _gone_ , and I couldn’t get ahold of Sam, and next your mother calls me - she goes on about some story about Lucifer’s child - Lucifer’s _child_ \- and how he’ll destroy everything and how our world isn’t the only one, and -”

“Jody -”

“And she asks me to look after you both, to - but - _Jesus_ , Dean - I can’t do it if you shut me out, okay? I can’t do it if you sit there and pretend -”

“I told you everything I know.”

“No, you haven’t.” Dean says nothing, and Jody sighs. “But I don’t care about that now. So we’ve got a problem - we’ll fix it. What I meant is -”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, and Dean doesn’t blame her, because he can guess it went something like, okay, are they friends or not, and why do they keep dumping lost girls on her if they don’t trust her enough to keep her in the loop of whatever the fuck is going on with their lives, and Dean can’t go there, because Jody’s a mom, right, so that makes her dangerous - because he’d watched her watching Sam, he’d seen the worry in her expression even when Sam grinned at Asa’s friends over his beer, and he can’t even imagine, doesn’t wanna know, how she looks at _him_ , what she thinks of _him_ , what Bobby’s told her of their childhood, if anything, because it’s _his_ job to worry about Sam, not hers, and it’s nobody’s job to worry about _him_ \- look what happens to people when they do - look at - look -

 _Jody’s good people_ , says Sam’s voice in his head, and so he’s talking to Claire, okay?, he’s talking to Claire but Dean had felt it all the same - the sudden, childish stab of envy - because Claire, she’d go off to Jody’s now and be looked after - Jody would have a room for her, would give her an out, a shot at a normal life, and Dean - and Sammy - 

God, he’s failed so _bad_. He’s failed his brother, and Cas, and Mom. And now this woman is sitting here and looking at him and pretending like any of that can be fixed, and the thing is, Dean’s such a weak piece of shit he wants to believe her, he wants -

“You know how you said you’d - listen?” he says, and it’s like someone else is talking through his mouth. “I think I need to - uhm - can we talk?”

There.

It’s done.

 _Not everything is on you_ , Cas says, and Dean remembers, vividly, Cas reaching out, grasping his shoulder right over when the handprint used to be. _You are not alone on this Earth. You are loved, Dean._

Jody squeezes his arm, and Dean’s almost shocked by the warmth of her hand through the flannel of his shirt. He’d sort of forgotten he was cold, had counted on the scotch to make that go away, but it’s only half working.

“Whatever you need, I’m here,” Jody says, her words catching the odd moment of silence before the air vents start up again.

Dean looks down into his glass.

“I,” he says, and there’s nothing after that, because he doesn’t know where to start - because there’s too many ways to finish that sentence, because _I’m actually not what you think I am, you know_ , and _I’m not straight and I’m not strong and I’m not happy_ and _I spent my entire life resenting Sam, because without Sam I would have run away and never looked back_ and _I’m sure my mother’s dead and I love her and and I hate her and that’s making me crazy inside_ and _I’m glad you’re here, but I’m not nearly as grateful as I should be that you’re alive, and I hate myself for it_.

And also, and mostly: _I can’t sit here and pretend like it’s okay my brother is burying Cas_ and _I’m terrified I’ll never see that dumb son of a bitch again_ , and _I don’t care if he doesn’t want me, I love him_ and _I don’t know how to be myself without him_ and goddammit, _I never asked for any of this shit and I’m so fucking_ tired _of all of it._

Jody is waiting patiently, and Dean pours himself more scotch, thinks there’s no way he can get through with this, because Cas - because the only way he can work with Cas is if no one knows, and he’s goddamn _grateful_ to Sam for pretending he doesn’t, in fact, know, because the truth is, Cas doesn’t _want_ him, not like that, never has, and if Dean says one word of it out loud - if he talks about anything, to anyone, then - _then_ -

(Then it's real.)

He drains his glass, fast and angry; catches Jody looking at him, can see she’s trying very hard not to say anything about it, which is more than he deserves.

“If you want, we can talk tomorrow,” she says, and Jesus, she’s being so decent here - she can see he’s much too drunk and she’s giving him an out, a way he won’t embarrass himself and regret it, but Dean finds he can’t let her walk away, can’t be on his own, can’t go to sleep yet because he’s not there yet, and if he goes back to his room now he’ll just lie back and drown in black things and black thoughts.

“There’s something I left out,” he says, desperate to say anything at all and silence that howl of rage building and building inside him. “Crowley died.”

He doesn't know where that's coming from. Beyond that first, instinctive stab of incredulity and shock, Dean hasn’t been thinking much about Crowley. He’s pushed all the events of the last day as far away from his brain as he could, because someone had to drive back to the Bunker and someone still has to deal with Jack Kline; but now he’s relatively safe, and well on his way to finish the bottle of scotch, Dean finds he’s too angry to keep it in any longer.

“Crowley died,” he repeats, and as he drinks some more, he remembers Crowley had hated that brand, had teased him about it and _You can’t penny pinch on scotch, duckie, that’s how the problems start_ and, before Jody can say anything to explain away the split second of relief on her face, Dean’s thrown the glass across the room in a sudden, vicious gesture.

That son of a _bitch_. That useless, _fucking_ son of a bitch.

Jody almost wants to take her gun out; Dean may be only half there, but it’s his job to see these things, and he doesn’t miss the slight movement. He doesn’t begrudge her for it, either. He knows he’s had too much to drink, knows he’s unpredictable and dangerous and not someone you’d want around on his best days. He shakes his head, forces himself to breathe out, to calm the fuck down.

“How did it happen?” Jody asks after a few moments, both her hands back on the table now, her voice quiet, measured, and again, Dean almost _resents_ her - the way she treats him as she would any other drunk loser smashing chairs in her police station; her level head, her common sense, her determined, unending _kindness_.

“Gave himself up for us,” he says curtly, trying hard to squash down those feelings; and the more he explains, the more he talks about what happened, the more his fury shifts, because maybe it’s Crowley he’s angry at, because the bastard could survive anything - was _meant_ to survive anything - Dean remembers Crowley shouting at him that _No, you don’t_ get _to give up_ \- and Dean - Dean had assumed that as long as Crowley lived, he wouldn’t be the only one walking around like that - like some half-alive person, a guy who knows full well he’s cheated the system and doesn’t deserve anything that comes his way.

Because Sam - Sam’s not that happy about himself even on the best of days, but that’s because he’s an idiot and a moron, and Cas is the same way - they’re fucking _heroes_ , both of them, and they haven't got this weight around their necks - they don’t remember ever craving the pain of others - they don’t know what it’s like to wake up in the middle of the night from a dream of blood and darkness and with a fully hard dick and their hearts black, empty messes. No, that guilt - that _debt_ \- Dean will never erase it or pay it back. And, sure, there are days when he doesn’t think about it - much - but that’s usually because there’s worse shit coming their way and someone gotta deal with it. 

But Crowley had _known_ \- Crowley had understood, had smelled it on him the very first time they’d met, Dean had seen it on his face, and unlike Cas, unlike Sam, he’d never believed Dean was all that worthy and perfect and whatever the fuck else - Crowley had _seen_ him, and yet he’d - stayed. And maybe that wasn’t the right word for it, but, yeah. He’d _stayed_ \- he’d stayed until he hadn’t.

And he had no _right_ \- he -

Dean closes his right hand around the bottle, more to feel the comforting weight of it than anything else. He can’t look at Jody, is so far gone that he barely hears her when she starts speaking again.

“Crowley was a demon, though,” she says, slowly, and Dean suddenly remembers Crowley almost killed her and Jesus, he’s such a _jerk_ , this is why he doesn’t talk to people, this is -

“You’re right,” he says. He stands up, staggers, and the next thing he knows, Jody’s there, holding him up. “I’m - you’re right. Sorry.”

They make it all the way to her bedroom before Dean speaks again, and he’s gotta say something, because this is where Cas used to sleep, and there’s still a mug on the desk - an ugly thing Sam had picked up at a yard sale because Cas had said it smelled like innocence and love, and what the fuck even - it was a thing a child made, the glaze all wonky, a tiny thumb print right by the handle, and Cas had clutched it between his hands all the way from Idaho and now it’s here, Dean’s sure there’s still a spoonful of leftover sugar in it, because Cas’ a slob and never washes that stupid cup, never even _thinks_ about it, and it drives Dean _crazy_ , and yet it’s also why Dean gestures vaguely at the room and means to say something useful about it, like that there’s extra blankets in the dresser, but those words won’t come out and the other words - the Cas words Dean’s been shouting at and raging over for _years_ now - the Cas words cannot come out and Dean lets his head bump against the cold wall and closes his eyes as Jody moves to the desk and sets her bag down.

“I know it’s unfair to put this shit on you, but Crowley - he - that summer, back when I turned, the first two weeks I -” Dean closes his fists, tries and fails to keep the words in in _in_. “It was -”

She doesn’t say anything, but Dean feels her come back towards him, knows she’s close enough to touch, but at the same time, the world is a closed-off, spinning slice of darkness behind his closed lids, and Dean can pretend he’s alone, can pretend yesterday never happened at all.

“I wanted to die,” he whispers, and then he has to fight the sudden wave of nausea, the storm of memories, all crowding and crowding and pushing him against the cold wall - that world of ash and war, and Crowley smiling his salesman smile, winking at him from behind Sam’s back, and Lucifer’s cold stare fixed on Sammy, the air almost trembling around him, shimmering in rage, and _Cas_ \- Cas pushing Dean to one side, walking into danger like the fucking idiot he is, and never mind -

Dean almost jumps when Jody finally touches him, her palm too warm against his cheek, her voice a barely there thing, something he can pretend he never heard if he wants to.

“Dean, whatever he forced you to do, that’s not who you are. It doesn't define you.”

It takes a long time for the words to find meaning, but when they do, Dean opens his eyes, looks down at Jody - at her fierce, honest face, at that thing in her eyes that’s the same thing that's in Sam’s eyes, in Cas’, even in Mom’s some of the time - a determination to keep him safe, to love him no matter what that Dean will never fully accept, or even understand.

“Forced...me?” He takes a step to one side, and he was planning to walk to the desk but his legs give way and he collapses on the bed instead.

His head in his hands, he remembers meeting Crowley again, after - _after_. How Crowley had waited for Sam to answer a phone call before looking him up and down, licking his lips.

 _So, killed anyone since you got back?_ he’d asked, and Dean had shaken his head.

 _I don’t kill_ people, he’d said, and then he’d made a mistake - he’d looked at Sam’s lonely figure out in the parking lot, he’d remembered, loud and clear, the savage joy he’d felt stalking and hunting his brother through the Bunker’s corridors. _In fact, I don’t want to kill anything else as long as I live._

_Not even me?_

_Not even you_ , Dean had said, but, yeah, Crowley’s Crowley, and that hadn’t been enough to make him happy, because nothing was.

 _You’re not the man I thought you were_ , he’d complained, only half joking, and fuck - Dean should have taken that as a compliment, but -

 _I know that_. 

Some kind of pause, some kind of Johnny Cash song in the background. Sam now taking notes, Cas probably halfway across the country with that Hannah chick. 

_So it’s over?_ Crowley had asked, playing with his drink’s umbrella, and Dean had rolled his eyes, because, _man_ -

 _It was never - anything_ , he’d said. _Come on, you gotta know that._

Dean watches Jody’s face slide in and out of focus, is sucked back into that other conversation which is so far away it probably never even happened at all. He remembers he adjusted his tie, unhappy and ill at ease under Crowley’s scrutiny, because Crowley - because Dean was doing the right fucking thing there, and Crowley had no _right_ to - to look at Dean like he _cared_ , to say, with a forced smile, _All the best for your new, happy life_ \- to fucking walk _away_ like Dean had any other option here, any cards at all.

(He’d sent the guy a text, though, two hours later, as Sam prattled on and on about the autopsy report. _Take care of yourself_ , he’d written, one-handed and clumsy, and Sam had never known.)

“Crowley was a monster,” Jody says, and she sits down next to him, and again, she’s close but not too close, and part of Dean knows this is her training kicking in, resents her for it. “You’re not responsible for -” 

“He didn’t _force_ me to do anything,” he says, flatly. “Jody, he - he saved my life.”

She doesn’t say anything, but it’s still clear she doesn’t believe him, and Dean - he never told Sam, because, yeah, talking to Sam about demons is a sure way to get sullen silences and bitch faces, and he couldn’t tell Cas, either, because - fuck, he doesn’t even know, and whatever - he’s not even sure he remembers all of it himself - it'd been clear, vibrant against his skin, on that morning he'd suddenly woke up tied to a chair in the Bunker’s dungeon, but it’s faded every day since, like a dream or a nightmare or an old book left in the sun, and now -

“You don't see color, you know?” He passes his hand on the back of his neck, rubs at his skin. “You see - you see - I don’t know. Like dogs do, maybe. Black and white and a sort of - what people taste like. Like food smells, but on people.”

Jody doesn’t say anything, and, again, Dean tries to stop talking, finds he can’t.

“And there’s no sunlight. Like, ever. And you touch things, but you don’t really _touch_ them - you don’t - fuck, I -”

Dean remembers waking up that first day, the raw panic he’d felt. It’d been like Hell, and yeah, for luckier people that’s a metaphor or some shit, but for him - the room around him had been - out of place, sort of, or shaky, like in some bad horror movie, and the light -

“And Crowley - sure, I know that’s what he wanted, I’m not blind. He was hoping I’d get there from the start, that we could -” Dean doesn’t believe that, even back then, Crowley had planned to rule Hell with him. Crowley had always hated Hell - he’d wanted _out_ , and the fact Dean was a demon, yeah, that didn’t change anything. “But still, he could’ve - he didn’t have to -”

Dean’s fucked up enough that he’s got no clue about relationships, and how to keep someone by his side in the right way, but he’s familiar with the _other_ way - with _making_ someone love you, with making someone completely _dependent_ on you, because that’s what’s Alastair’s done to him - he thinks Cas knows (hopes Cas doesn’t), and all these years later, it still makes him _sick_ \- how he’d hated Alastair and yet _begged_ him to stay, how he hadn’t known how to survive in that darkness without him. 

He rubs his hands together. 

It’s still so fucking _cold_.

“He was kind,” he whispers, without looking at Jody. “He taught me how to - how to turn off the hunger, how to - yeah. He was kind.”

And Dean, again, thinks Crowley must have known everything - not only what was done to Dean in Hell, but what Dean had done _himself_ , how he’d _enjoyed_ it - he must have been listening as Dean begged for Sam to save him - as he cursed Sam for leaving him, for making him Dean love him so hard Dean had fucking died for him - as he sobbed and shouted and learned how to _want_ Alastair, how to revel in the darkness. Crowley _knew_ , and he understood in a way even Cas never could, because -

Because someone had done the same to him.

“Dean, I-”

Something in Jody’s voice reminds Dean of what kind of fucked up conversation he's trying to have with her - in a sudden moment of clarity, he remembers that he doesn’t want to talk about these things, that normal people can’t and shouldn’t bear them, that his job's to get Jody a room and some breakfast and then send her the fuck _away_ , and why is he thinking about Crowley, anyway - nothing he can do there, also not his fault, okay, not his fucking _fault_ \- Dean stands up, more to get away from Jody than anything, almost doesn’t stumble as he moves around the room, checks his watch - eleven fucking thirty, probably in the morning, and where the fuck is Sam - and thinks of something else to say - anything that’ll turn off the pity and concern in Jody’s face, a joke, a fucking -

“And sure, so he got a bit handsy, but can you blame him?” Dean grins, opens his arms wide, but his plans of turning around, putting himself on display, are only half successful - he misses a step, almost crashes into the dresser.

Damn, he's drunker than he’d thought.

Also, Jody isn’t laughing. 

Not at all. 

“Whatever he forced you to do, you can tell me,” she repeats, low and serious, and Dean blinks at her.

“Jesus, I just - I just _told_ you, right? He didn’t _force_ me to do a goddamn _thing_.”

“So getting handsy with guys - is that something you -” Jody snaps, and there it is - that concern swelling inside her now tipping over, _Twins_ Schwarzie amping all the way up to _Terminator_ Schwarzie as she realizes she’s made a mistake, because yeah, Dean can see how she’s coming to realize it at last - that whatever’s wrong with him, she can’t fix it.

“I’m _fine_ with that,” he says, too loudly, and it must be the scotch, or the grief, or just the fucking pointlessness of it all, okay, because Lucifer’s kid’s ten minutes away from raining frogs and lava on them, but he doesn’t even realize what he’s admitted to until the sentence comes back to him like a weird echo, loud and distorted, _I’m_ fine _with that_ , and god-fucking- _dammit_.

“What do you mean?” Jody asks, and Dean waits and watches as she figures it out - and yep, there it is, the confusion turning into frowning, and next - next she gets it, she fucking _gets_ it, and here comes the subtle reassessment of everything she thought she knew about him - Dean sees it on her face, and that’s what he hates, that’s why he never talks about it - how who you bang somehow defines everything you are, cancels out everything fucking else - and Jody, _fuck_ , he knows Jody will be okay with it, it’s not about that - she’ll be okay with it but she’ll still file it away as some kind of - of valid information about him - she’ll still see him differently, it’s like - telling people you’ve got fucking _cancer_ , right, and that’s who he is now - dick slut Dean Winchester, a fucking _joke_ and someone - and -

“Does Sam know?” Jody asks, and fuck - Dean really doesn’t want to answer that.

He takes a few steps around the room instead, tries to clear his head (wishes he hadn’t left that bottle of scotch back in the War Room). He picks up a pencil someone left on the dresser, puts it down again.

“We never talked about it, if that’s what you mean.” He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look at her. “But hey, it’s his goddamn job to figure stuff out - he’s supposed to be the brains in this whole fucking operation, so I’m pretty sure he -”

“Don’t say that.”

“Don’t say what?”

“Don’t put yourself down like that,” Jody says, and she’s about to add something else when they both hear Sam’s voice calling them, his heavy steps coming closer closer, and next thing Dean knows, here he is, and Dean’s not ready to see him at all - the man who just buried Cas, also the man who doesn’t give a shit Crowley’s dead, and his fucking kid brother who’s bound to know the whole she-fucking- _bang_ about Dean’s gross bedroom habits, down to his favorite brand of lube, yeah, because that’s what sharing a room for thirty years fucking does to you, and Dean’s fed up with everything right now - with Sam for sticking with him, with Jody who had no right to be kind to either of them, with Lucifer for being a fucking sex machine and creating another _Alien_ -size problem instead of leaving them the _fuck_ alone - with Crowley for giving up, with Cas for always, _always_ having to fix everything on his own damn self, and with Mom - with Mom who never - who didn’t - _fuck_. 

Sam glances at him, then away; he pushes his hair back, talks directly to Jody.

“I think we’ve got a problem,” he says, passing her his tablet.

Dean stumbles back to the bed, leans over Jody, ignoring the sudden nausea, swallowing back the bile in his mouth. 

It’s a _Buzzfeed_ article, of all things, and what the fuck even? Jody scrolls down before Dean can read the headline, but he still sees the words _marketing campaign_ and a couple of question marks, and the photos - it’s church billboards, _dozens_ of them, and they all say the same thing, the fat black letters painfully clear even upside-down: _Sam, please come_.

“Fuck,” he says, and next thing he knows he’s throwing up, Sam’s hands scorching hot on his back as someone says, over and over again, _It’s okay - we’ll fix it_ like it's something that even makes sense.


	6. Thicker Than Water

It’s been fifteen minutes, and Dean hasn’t started yet. He’s moving around the cabin, picking up objects, putting them down; talking to himself, mostly in curses. Cas is still not looking at him. He kneels where he’s been told to, the thorns inside his skin slowly making their way towards his bones, and he waits.

“You dicks promised me I was _out_ ,” Dean says suddenly, coming back into Cas’ field of vision. The words are almost black with anger. “You told me you’d close the _damn_ Gates.”

“The Gates are closed?” Cas asked, surprised, and he can’t help it - he looks up, at where Dean is seemingly counting the books left on a rickety table, moving them around one-handed. 

_It makes sense_ , he thinks, as he watches Dean. He’s been too worried about his own world to piece together the workings of this one, but if the Gates are closed - that’s why he can’t hear his brothers. That’s why everything is silent. All this quiet - it must mean -

“What about the Gates of Hell?”

Dean makes a harsh gesture in mid-air without looking up.

“And Lucifer?”

“Gone,” Dean grunts, and the book he’s holding slips from his hand, falls down on the table with a dull thump.

“Gone? Is he _dead_?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Dean says, and he was going to stop there, but he can’t help it - he straightens up, looks around the room, a flash of pride making his entire soul explode in pale golden light. “Wasn’t looking too good after I stabbed the fuck outta him, though.”

Cas is about to ask more about that when it happens again - one of the poisoned thorns finds a nerve, and scorching hot pain makes him fall down on his hands, bite through his lips in an effort not to cry out.

Dean is there is an instant, his hand warm and comforting on Cas’ shoulder.

“Shit,” he says, his grasp firm and solid. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Cas holds on to the old blanket as he tries to anchor himself - to make his mind, his entire body, go empty and quiet. Pain starts in the brain, and it’s something he should be able to control. The fact he doesn’t - the fact he _can’t_ \- if Ishim or Sariel could see him now -

“Sorry,” Dean says again, as if he had any reason to apologize, and Cas remembers Ishim was prideful and a murderer, and as for Sariel - his first commander has been dead so long, Cas isn’t really sure what he would think, about anything, because Sariel was a good soldier, a believer, but he moved in a world where the voice of God was still loud as thunder over the trees; and, as to what had come after - as for how things have been now that God’s orders are a distant memory, at the very most - Sariel wouldn’t know what to make of it, but he would have recognized this, right now - a man acting in free will, a man choosing to put himself at risk, to comfort a fallen enemy, rather than to seize the chance to save himself, because humankind - because Cas remembers when every angel knew this and accepted it as gospel - because men are nobler than angels, and the new heralds of the Lord on this Earth, and their strength does not come from their overly developed brains and their pitiful tools and their increasingly sophisticated weapons, but from the fact men can see beyond tribe and prey - they can choose compassion even when it is difficult and unwise to.

(Not that they do, all the time, or even most of the time, but Cas has never given up hope that one day they will; that one day, the world will know peace.) 

“Not your fault.”

Dean sort of stumbles back, collapses against the old couch.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” he says, in a small voice, and Cas finally notices it - Dean’s holding the shears so tightly his knuckles are white.

There is a short silence as Cas struggles, and fails, against the question that’s been on his mind since the very first moment, when he’d realized Dean didn’t know him.

“Who saved you from Hell?” he finally asks, and Dean looks away, and even though he doesn’t speak, Cas can see the answer all the same, can smell it in the tightening of Dean's jaw and the sudden darkening of his soul as resentment and bitterness take over and grow in mean, thick plumes of almost-smoke, blotting out everything else, and a new wave of pain courses through Cas’ body, a torment much deeper than physical hurt. “No. _No_.”

Dean lets go of the shears, presses the back of his closed fist against his mouth.

“Oh, Dean.”

There is no need to discuss this further, and Cas is not sure either of them would find the words to, because the truth is simply to awful to be contemplated; because nobody saved Dean, because he was left in the flames and the ugliness of perdition, forgotten, left behind, and Cas finds he knows exactly why the choice was made - he remembers how that had been an option in his world as well - to wait until Dean’s soul was almost completely consumed, to send Michael to claim it for himself when Dean had almost Fallen, because as broken and twisted and corrupted as Dean’s heart could be tortured into becoming, Michael was an archangel, and he had the power to shed light on that one piece of Good remaining in him; and that piece, that piece would have done _anything_ for a chance at escape and redemption.

Before Cas can say anything, Dean stands up, gets his phone out, dials a number.

“It’s _bad_ ,” he half stutters, as soon as the person picks up, and, again, Cas breathes in, then out, as he forces himself not to listen; still, and despite his best efforts to not notice it, there is something familiar in the room now, like a faint perfume Cas can’t quite place.

“No, I’m not - I’m not alone, but,” Dean says next, and he walks to a window, presses his forehead against the cold glass. “Charlie, it’s an angel. It’s a fucking _angel_ , and I -”

 _Charlie_. This is what the noise is - the soft, geometric music of Charlie Bradbury’s mind. For the first time in what seems like days, Cas finds himself smiling. 

(Charlie is alive. She and Dean are friends. The thought is warm and happy on his skin.)

“Yeah, I’m not doing that. _No_. And there’s nothing here, you know I cleaned this place out years ago, I just - I don’t know. Talk to me, okay?”

Dean is silent for a few minutes after that, a pitiful, lonely figure in the half darkness of the cabin, but as Cas watches, his soul slowly shakes the darkness off, as a dog would raindrops, and Cas finds himself following the light all the way to Dean’s profile, to the gray hair at his temples, to those freckles on his cheekbones Cas knows intimately well, because he placed them there himself, one by one; and finally, to his straight nose, and the curve of his lips. 

Cas remembers the first time he wondered what they tasted like. He’d been in a red and pink room with that girl Chastity, and she’d been telling him, in what Cas now recognizes as a flirtatious tone, that every person tastes different; that if he liked cherry and daiquiri, then he was about to get lucky, because - and Cas had tuned her out, had puzzled over this new piece of information - he’d never wondered about the taste of human lips before, never had any reason to, but in that moment, he’d found himself thinking about _Dean_ ’s lips, how they’d probably taste like beer (unless Cas could also taste his soul by kissing him, in which case - in which _case_ -), and when Chastity had tugged on his tie he’d realized he was thinking about kissing Dean, which made no sense at all, and was surely inappropriate, as were those actions, right there - Chastity pushing him down on a bed, passing her fingers on the buttons of his shirt - Cas didn’t want to take advantage of someone whose heart had never quite healed from its childhood wounds, someone whose _father_ \- someone -

“The archers can’t go there, there ain’t enough cover,” Dean’s voice says, as if from a great distance away, and Cas closes his eyes.

Inappropriate. 

Forbidden.

(Unwanted.)

“Nah, listen - it’s the damn _hill_ \- yeah, I know it’s your decision, your _Highness_ , but it’s a stupid-ass decision and we’re not losing half our men if we can help it, okay? You made me general, now fucking listen to me.”

None of that makes any sense to Cas, but Dean seems better now - he’s walked away from the window, is even coming back towards Cas, looking down at him in a distracted way that’s miles away (and much better) than the tortured, conflicted feeling that had darkened his eyes when he’d first picked up the shears. 

“Listen - I’m okay now. Yeah, _really_. Gotta go - we can pick this up tomorrow. Yeah. Nope. Come on - I’m _not_ gonna do that, stop asking. And - thank you,” Dean adds, before hanging up and turning to Cas again. “My friend Charlie,” he explains, unnecessarily. 

He pushes the phone into his back pocket, shakes his head.

“She wanted to talk to you, but that ain’t happening. She was lucky enough to be out of this shit when it all went down, and I’m not - I don't want her near any of it now. Not that you are, you know - whatever. Just sayin’.”

“I understand.” 

Dean manages to stay quiet for only another few seconds before moving the shears to his left hand and start talking again.

“We belong to the same - it’s like a team, you know. Sort of a medieval-themed game - there’s battles, and you gotta think about strategy and all that shit. My wife thinks it’s not a real sport, but -”

And here is that feeling again, the same that had gone through him when he’d first seen evidence of Dean’s happiness and Dean’s love - something so bitter and shameful and _strong_ , Cas has to call by its name. He’s _jealous_. He’s jealous of this woman who gets to share Dean’s life, to bake him bread and make him smile and reprimand him about his choice of hobbies. He’s jealous of someone he doesn’t know because she gets to share Dean’s life in what is probably a sweet, uncomplicated way. And, worst of all, he’s jealous in the most sinful, pathetic, _human_ way - because this man is not his, and doesn’t know him - has no obligation to him, no reason to -

(Not that the other Dean, the real one, is his either. Not that a life debt can ever be the foundation of an honest relationship.

Not that Cas would know how to be in a relationship in the first place.)

Dean must have seen the change on his face, because he backtracks at once; still, he keeps talking, because this is Dean, and sullen silences are not in his nature. It doesn’t matter if he’s afraid, or angry, or contentedly happy: Dean is a talker, and even being trapped here, in a place dark with memories, with someone he doesn’t really know is not enough to silence him.

“But, whatever, we still run around a lot, lift weights, that sort of thing. Staging a sword fight - _fuck_ , that's more work than actually _fighting_. And Charlie - she’s good at this brain stuff, you know? Sometimes I need to - get it out, and - sometimes -”

“Dean drinks,” Cas offers, to break the awkward silence, and this other Dean lets out a sound that could be exasperation or laughter.

“Yeah, that’s not happening. Not anymore.” He fiddles with the string around his neck, and there is the amulet Sam gave him all those years ago; and next to it, next to what is the most powerful object in the entire universe - an unassuming silver coin. Dean passes his fingers on it before tucking it back into his shirt. “I got some other ones too, but this one - twenty-four hours sober - this one's the most important. I didn’t think I’d last a day, you know? Not with Sam -”

Again, the sentence breaks. It seems like Dean needs to keep talking, but is still wary about sharing too much about his family. Cas can’t really blame him.

“Anyway, it helps, but -” 

Cas watches as Dean moves the shears to his right hand again; as he looks down at where Cas is still kneeling, his hands back on his lap, his clothes half burned away from his body.

“You want to hurt me,” Cas says. “I understand. There is no shame in it.”

There is a flash of raw _hurt_ on Dean’s face, there and gone in a second.

“Like _hell_ there isn’t,” he says, bluntly, but it comes out like a question, and Cas sighs.

“What was done to you - that was _not_ your fault. And I’m _very_ powerful, Dean. I can withstand a _lot_ of pain. If it helps you in any way, please -”

As it happened in the forest, Dean is suddenly upon him, fast and dangerous, a blade to his skin, a look of fury, almost hatred, in his clear green eyes.

“You think I _like_ it? Uh? You think I _like_ hurting people?” He pulls on Cas’ hair, exposes his neck, the runes on the shears now so close Cas feels his Grace react to them. 

“Dean -”

“You think I _want_ to be like this? I don’t _want_ to hurt you,” he shouts, and, despite the impending sense of danger, Cas brings his hands up, cups his face.

“I only meant -”

“Shut up. Shut up, shut _up_ , shut the _fuck_ -”

Ignoring the cold touch of the blade on his neck, Cas keeps touching him, slow and gentle, moving his thumbs in the same barely there caress his Dean sometimes uses on him (when he’s hurt, when he’s desperate, when he’s dying); he tugs Dean’s head down, places a light kiss on his forehead.

“Whoever you are, wherever you are, I will do my very best to love you,” he says, and there’s a flash of something that may be relief in the music that is Dean’s soul. “And I will keep loving you whatever you do, Dean. This is what I meant when I said you could hurt me if you wanted to. This and no more.”

Dean lets out a shuddering breath, seems to deflate from the inside out.

“Who are you?” he whispers, in shaky, hoarse words.

“I fought the armies of Hell for your soul,” Cas says, simply. “And I won.”

Dean almost smiles under Cas’ touch, but he pulls back all the same, stands up, passes his free hand through his hair, as if trying to pull himself together.

“This is - _fuck_.”

“Help me get better,” Cas says, “and I can take that away. Your fears, your nightmares, your darkness - all of it. When I am strong again, I can heal you.”

Dean shakes his head.

“You don’t need to - don’t put it like that. I said I’d help you, okay? I don’t want _payment_.”

“It’s not payment. It’s a gift.”

“You don’t even _know_ me.”

Cas smiles.

“Maybe not here. But we've been through much together, you and I, and you’ve done more for me than you can possibly imagine.”

Dean opens his mouth, closes it again. As he’s about to answer, there is a text message from his phone. Dean fishes it out of his pocket, and whatever he sees on the screen, it’s enough to make him drop the matter completely.

“Let’s worry about this stuff later,” he says; and Cas sees it well enough - the barely there jolt of excitement and self-hatred as Dean moves towards him again, the shears almost shimmering in the golden light of the lamps - but they both pretend it’s not there. 

(Easier this way, and some things never change.)

Cutting up the old coat is long, boring work, and Cas finds himself almost grieving over its destruction. This coat, of course, means nothing to him - he’d picked it up in a diner because he’d sensed the car keys in the inner pocket and its owner had been too busy shouting at his wife to take notice - but something about this particular piece of clothing reminds him of Dean - of the way Dean had looked at him on that night of miracles and fireflies, the way he’d said, _Wait - This is yours_ , and, of course, he’d meant the coat, but he’d left his own fingers brush against Cas’ for a second, and that light touch had made all memories of Daphne disappear from Cas’ mind - her flowery perfume had faded and died into Dean’s stronger, masculine smell - motor oil and leather and a subtle hint of cheap shaving cream - and Cas had put the coat on and walked towards the demons, his mind and heart a jumble of dark colors and dark music, and next -

“Take a deep breath,” Dean says from behind him, and Cas does, closing his hands into fists as Dean tears the last piece of the coat off, starts to work on what is left of the shirt. 

“You said you’d made a deal,” Cas tries, after a few minutes, to take his mind off the pain. “What kind of deal?”

Dean stops what he’s doing, the back of his hand pressed against a stubborn scrap of fabric. His knuckles are warm even through the cotton.

“How did it happen?” he asks. “You know - in your world?”

“Dean said no,” Cas says, blinking against the sudden memories. “And Sam -”

“Sam said yes?”

Dean’s started to work again. He tears something off, and Cas hisses.

“He took control of Lucifer, and jumped into the Cage with him.”

Cas can almost taste Dean’s disbelief in his own mouth, but he’s hesitant about adding more details, because that period - it’s painful to dwell on all that happened next. He remembers what he’d had to do to get Sam out, but, more than that, how Dean’s longing and loneliness had called him back to Earth; how Cas had watched, without understanding any of it, the unfurling of Dean’s ordinary days with Lisa - how he had wondered at everything - Dean’s smiles, Dean’s nightmares, Dean’s gentleness and Dean’s sudden, unexpected bouts or rage. How he’d lost sight of Sam, how he’d never realized something that should have been glaringly obvious: that Sam’s soul was simply not there.

Cas will never forgive himself for that.

(And it doesn’t matter if Sam’s told him, more than once, that he doesn’t care, that things are alright between them. It’s in Sam’s nature to be kind, but Cas - some stains cannot be washed off.)

“We got him back, after,” Cas adds, because he assumes Dean would want to know. “And he - healed. Eventually.”

“Did he?” asks Dean, and there it is again - the disbelief, and, underneath it, something else Cas can’t quite pin down - anger, perhaps. “So what is he doing now?”

Cas waits until Dean sits back and drops the heavy shears on the blanket. The first part of his healing process is done, but he’s weak enough to dread what must come after.

“He’s hunting,” he says. “With you.”

Without explanation, Dean stands up, walks out of the cabin. Cas wonders if he should follow, if Dean was overwhelmed again, either by this conversation they’re having, or by his own darkness, but he soon sees his fears are misplaced - apparently, Dean wants to start a fire, because he went and fetched some ancient-looking logs from outside.

“No kids?” he asks, before Cas can offer to help. “No dogs?”

“No,” Cas says, and Dean snorts, adds another branch to the intricate structure he’s building in the fireplace.

“Nice job on the healing.”

Cas watches the muscles in Dean’s back move under his clothes as Dean kneels forward to push the logs where he wants them, reaches into his pocket for a lighter and starts the fire. He thinks about Sam - about how Sam had gotten somehow - _quieter_ since Cas had first met him. He thinks about that young man who’d once rushed forward to meet him, about how _fiery_ Sam’s soul had looked back then, vibrant and loud and fraying at the borders. Cas had seen those marks on him, and that had made him wary of Sam - of what he represented, and what he could become. The Boy King, and Lucifer’s sword. _A heavy destiny for one so young_ , he’d thought, without caring in the slightest, because back then the world had been a far easier place - a combat zone with perfectly defined battle lines.

(He thinks about Sam teaching him how to shave; remembers Sam smiling at him through the mirror, his hands reaching up, adjusting Cas’ posture. How he’d pretended not to notice Cas’ increasing frustration with the whole process, how he’d talked about Dean instead, transforming what was surely a private memory into something Cas could be distracted by, because _Dean taught me how to do this, you know?_ and _He just whipped his hunting knife out, and I nearly pissed my pants because no_ way _I was putting that blade anywhere near my face_ and _Man, he was such a_ jerk _, he waited until I was almost_ crying _before giving me a proper razor he’d nicked in some gas station_ and Cas had slowly relaxed under the words, focused his attention on getting the angle right instead of thinking, over and over and over, that it didn’t even _matter_ if he cut his own artery and died, because one day he _would_ die, because he was _mortal_ now, and wouldn’t it have been _easier_ -

And then Dean had come into the room, of course, because when Cas was in the Bunker, Dean was always there, just a few steps away - walking softly behind his chair and checking in before going to bed and coming in the library still covered in motor oil and grease to ask Cas if he wanted pizza or Chinese that night, even though he knew full well Cas was completely indifferent to any food that wasn’t burgers - and so Dean had come into that bathroom, had hovered by the door, tall and serious and almost - disappointed, for some reason, and he’d watched Cas frown at his own soapy face in annoyance. Or, well - he’d watched until Cas had looked up and smiled at him, and then he’d walked away.)

“I think Sam is happy, in his own way,” Cas says, and Dean snorts again.

“Yeah, Sam’s good at that.”

“What do you mean?” Cas asks, but Dean doesn’t answer.

“Listen, this next part’s gonna hurt,” he says instead, and Cas follows his gaze to where the fire’s roaring up, sees Dean holding out his pliers over the flame.

“I know,” he says, and he hates himself for the small jolt of fear coursing through him, for how - _human_ \- he’s becoming. “I can take it. I’ve had worse.”

Dean turns around, and his eyes flicker up, then down. Cas is about to ask him about that - about what is, unmistakably now, Dean inspecting what is left of his wings - but it seems the wrong time for a question Cas feels is - intimate, almost. He bows his head instead, braces himself for the pain.

And the pain never comes.

When he looks over his shoulder, he sees Dean staring down at the white-hot tip of the pliers. He’s sweating lightly, and, while it's true they’re sitting way too close to the fire, and Dean’s still wearing all of his usual layers, including a stylish mountain jacket, it’s not about that. It never is. 

Cas reaches back, a bit blindly, to put his hand on Dean’s knee, offer some comfort.

Dean blinks, shakes his head. 

“I kept this for bullets, you know,” he says. “Before, I mean.”

Cas says nothing; waits.

“And now I can’t have any of this shit in the house. Pliers, hammers, even screwdrivers - Bobby’s got them, and he’s gotta come over every time the car’s got a damn - every time - _fuck_.”

His face looks suddenly older. By the flickering light of the fire, Cas can see the hints of old age slowly catching up with him - the first wrinkles by his eyes, at the corners of his mouth. He thinks that, in his world, Dean was trapped in Hell for four months, and even now, he’ll still wake up screaming from time to time - Cas remembers hearing him during one of his Netflix marathons, remembers forcing a pillow over his face so he could blot Dean’s pain out, because his mind had been a black hole of nothing back then, and any kind of action - walking to Dean’s room, talking to Dean, apologizing, helping, doing nothing - it had all felt like too much and not nearly enough and very, very confusing. 

(And anyway, he’d known how that would have gone down, because he and Dean had done this dance before - Cas would have tried to dreamwalk inside the fiery furnace that was Dean’s brain in those moments, and Dean would have woken up, pushed him out - he would have said he was _fine_ , that he didn’t need anything, and Cas would have sat on the edge of the bed trying to find a balance between Dean’s words and the discordant colors of his soul - the remnants of charred black, the hint of pink. 

_I want to be alone, I want to talk to you_. 

_I want to go back to sleep, I want to be near you._

_Leave, Stay._ )

Four months. Cas can’t even imagine how much time it must have taken for Dean’s soul to truly splinter and almost turn - years, probably, and that would have meant _centuries_ under Alastair’s control.

“There is no shame in it,” he says again, because really, he believes that and what else can he say, and, to his surprise, Dean reaches over with his left hand to where Cas’ own hand is still touching his knee and laces their fingers together.

“I know,” he answers. “I know.”

“What does Charlie tell you?” Cas asks, after a short moment. “To calm you down, I mean.”

Dean breathes in, lets go of Cas’ hand. Scratches the back of his neck.

“Larping stuff, mostly. Strategy. Shit I need to focus on.”

“I see.” Cas watches him a second longer, then looks away from Dean, puts his hands back on his own thighs. “How are your chess skills?”

“You’re not serious,” Dean says, but Cas is.

“Pawn to D4,” he says, and Dean passes his fingers, very lightly, just below Cas’ right shoulder blade, next to where one of the thorns is.

“Why do you get to be white?” he grumbles, and then - Cas smells it before he can feel it - the sudden, intense _stench_ of burning flesh - he grits his teeth and forces himself to bear it, because he _must_ , because he needs this poison _out_ , because he needs to go _back_ \- and when Dean pulls sharply and the thorn comes free, Cas almost blacks out - comes to to Dean’s hand on the back of his neck, to Dean's thumb moving up and down in that same slow, comforting movement his Dean also uses, and - “Pawn to D5,” Dean says, and Cas looks back at him over his shoulder, very nearly kisses him.

“Horse to F3,” he says, quickly, but he doesn’t miss the curious flicker of Dean’s gaze, the barely there tightening of his fingers on Cas’ skin.

(Prefers not to think about it, because he doesn’t know how to explain that - pull - between him and Dean, and he doesn’t want to dwell on it, especially not now.)

“Fuck, horses already?” Dean says from behind him.

Cas feels his hand move down his back, all the way to the tip of his _latissimus dorsi_ , and press down.

“Uhm, pawn to E6?” Dean says; and then, without waiting for an answer, he gets another thorn out, and Cas’ breath catches.

By the time Dean’s finished, his voice is straining, and Cas is nearly shaking with pain. They’re ten moves in; remarkably, Dean’s managed to capture one of Cas’ horses, but his grip on the game is fading - playing blind is not something many people are good at, and Cas thinks Dean’s only held on as long as he has out of a desperate determination not to listen to Cas’ laboured breathing (not to revel, in any way, in the slow torture he’s inflicting on Cas).

“I’ll just - check,” he says now, but he’s already tossed the pliers to one side, and Cas knows this is about comfort, not thoroughness - when the last thorn had been extracted, Cas’ Grace had flared up despite his best efforts to control it, and for a moment the room had exploded in pure white light.

(It hadn’t harmed Dean, but Cas had been too exhausted to wonder at it.)

And if he accepts Dean’s touch, it’s because he wants to think some of that comfort is directed towards _him_ \- that Dean doesn’t simply want to make sure he hasn’t harmed Cas for his own peace of mind, that he actually _cares_ about Cas, that the bond there is between them is not the only thing left over from a nightmare neither of them can remember all that well but a normal, ordinary event that could happen anywhere - simply what humans call _chemistry_ , perhaps - that quiet recognition of yourself in another.

Dean shuffles a bit closer as his hands move carefully up and down Cas’ naked back, checking for splinters, and Cas feels Dean’s breath on his skin when Dean speaks again.

“Bishop to F5,” he says, softly, and Cas finds this man - this man who walks alone in the forest and eats homemade sweets for lunch and keeps his weapons well hidden and his soul in plain sight - is breaking his very heart.

“You can’t do that,” he says, just as softly. “There’s a pawn in your way.”

Dean bows his head forward, his short hair tickling Cas’ skin.

“Fuck, really? Well, I’m out, then. I don’t remember what’s where.”

“You did well,” Cas says, equitably; and then, trying to keep his voice from shaking, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, you cheated,” Dean answers, after a short silence. One of the logs falls down, and they both ignore the sudden noise. “You’re a fucking angel, you can probably see, what, forty moves ahead?”

“Probably, yes,” Cas says, and he almost smiles.

Dean comes closer still, presses one of his warm palms right next to one of the burns, soothing the skin, making Cas sigh.

“What about a name? You got one of those?”

The question is mildly absurd, and yet Dean is not wrong. In the thirteen hours since they’ve met, he’s never asked for Cas’ name, and Cas’ never thought to offer it, because - because he’s a fool and he never truly realized that, of course, Dean doesn’t know it. This unremarkable, completely logical fact seems to magnify his wish to go home tenfold, and Cas now understands that need is far from selfless - he wants to make sure Dean and Sam are safe, of course, and he must make sure Jack uses his powers as Kelly would have wanted, to bring about that future that could still bloom and flower for them all, but also - but _mostly_ \- he wants to be _known_ again - he wants to be looked at not in fear, or even curiosity, but in that way Dean, _his_ Dean, has - with joy and affection and a feeling that’s been seven years in the making.

“Castiel,” he says, wishing he could curl up and sleep instead of giving himself up to the grueling list of tasks this foreign world has in store for him - completing the healing process, finding a way back - and Dean shifts his hand so he can sooth another patch of skin.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, softly, and this time, Cas laughs, a vast, quiet wave of relief crashing down on him.

“Hello, Dean,” he replies; and then he’s overcome with exhaustion - his broken wings flicker into existence, and Cas hears Dean’s resulting curses grow dim and fade as he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hy guys, I hope you liked this chapter! Next time we'll be back with Sam and Dean, and just as a heads-up, I'm planning to update a bit later than usual because my DCBB draft needs to be submitted by the end of this month and I still need to put some serious work into it (please send good thoughts my way!). I'm hoping Chapter 7 will be up on Sunday, August 6th at the very latest - see you all then! ❤


	7. If the Sky Comes Falling Down (for You)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I blame this needlessly angsty chapter on the music I was stupid enough to pick when writing it out - a piano cover of Charlie Puth’s _We Don’t Talk Anymore_. And also - I know it’s sad, but people say stupid things when they’re grieving, and I plan on resolving this, okay? Promise.

_What if I'm far from home?_   
_Oh brother, I will hear you call!_   
_Oh, if the sky comes falling down, for you_   
_There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do_

 

The first time Dean wakes up, it’s one in the morning. 

Or that’s what his watch says, anyway.

It’s not like there’s some way to tell day from night in this goddamn place.

( _Won’t you miss having windows?_ Cas had asked when he’d first seen the Bunker, and he’d frowned, okay, looking all worried and sad and a good half way to disappointed, and Dean had thought about a lifetime spent pouring salt on windowsills and cleaning shattered glass from wounds and he’d laughed at him.

_We’ll paint your room blue, buddy_ , he’d said; and he’d only realized much, much later, after Cas had up and left - again - that he’d simply assumed Cas would live with them - that Cas would _want_ to. He’d been angry at himself, then, because, fuck, he’d known for thirty years that his life came with an expiration date, that it was wrong and selfish and plain _dumb_ to want things for himself, and yet he kept falling into that trap, again and again and again: the apple pie dream, a day when ‘family’ would mean good things and ‘nightmares’ just another another type of dreams.

As _fucking_ if.)

Dean rolls over, reaches for the bottle of water and the box of pills on his bedside table and sort of - steps back and watches himself go through the motions, because God knows he’s fucking been here before, and _goddammit_ \- not only swallowing those pills, that is, but also pushing and prodding at some kind of Sam thought - how _Sam_ must have been the one to leave this stuff here, and how Dean will iron his goddamn shirts for a month because his kid brother, man, he’s the best goddamn person in the universe and Dean will be grateful to him for a whole eternity, okay, or however goddamn long it takes to pay him back, to pay back twenty years of bad childhood and bad meals and pushing a pillow on top of his own face because how long can a baby cry for, anyway, and stop stop _stop_ I _HATE_ YOU and Dean sort of floats over that forgotten motel room, over Dad passed out against the wall, his legs blocking the door, over Sammy screaming his lungs out in his shitty portable crib, watches the kid on the other bed punching and hugging the pillow and that’s how he falls back against his own pillow, right here and now, thirty-fuck years later, how he swallows the bitter pill in his mouth because he knows that’s what getting better tastes like; thinks of Sam, again, because he doesn’t even remember getting into bed, and yeah, he’ll iron every single shirt he can find, and as the colors of Sam’s plaids flash and fade in front of his closed eyes, dark reds and soft blues and forest greens, new thoughts bubble up inside his head - vague, unfocused pieces of things about how he’s always doing the ironing, anyway, and what a weird word that is, right, iron, ironing, and 

how come it’s a verb at all when it’s barely even 

a sound and 

darkness, really, is the best sound of them all 

(just quiet, dark darkness, doing her darkness things) 

dark.

The next time Dean wakes up, he thinks it may be morning. He sits up on instinct, wonders for a second if he there’s some hunt he’s forgotten about, because everything fucking _hurts_ , man - his head is twice the size it should be, his legs are much too heavy, and his ribs feel a bit tender, as if someone’s punched him all the way through morning.

As he sits there, breathing in and out against the weight of thirty-eight years of hard, shitty, unforgiving life, Dean slowly remembers that he’s not hurt, or even sick. 

He’s just drunk. 

Or, well - he was. 

Now he’s not sure he’s anything at all.

God, he needs a shower.

(He should be used to sleeping in his clothes by now, but it always feels - icky - because Sam’s taken his shoes off, but the buttons of his jeans sit uncomfortably against his midriff, and his t-shirt’s rode up his back, and there’s something pulling and pulling at the skin of his armpit, and his face’s itching, the way it always does after a couple of days of not shaving.)

After a few minutes, Dean moves, awkward and careful, until his socked feet land on the cold floor. He notices a half-full bottle of water on the bedside table, right next to a big box of aspirin, suddenly remembers he woke up at some point during the night, and what came before that. 

Jody was here.

(Wasn’t she?)

Yeah.

Jody was here, and they’d shared a drink back in the War Room as Sam - as Sam -

Dean bends forward, is sick again, and at this point, it just hurts. There’s nothing left in his stomach, not even alcohol, so he just sits there, his head forced down by the violent contractions of his stomach, his eyes starting to water as he struggles to breathe, the grown-up part of him pitying and scoffing, okay, because this is just throwing up, and goddammit, ‘s no big deal at all, and that kid voice that’s still trapped in his brain shouting in terror, insisting he could seriously, actually _die_ from this, and he can’t breathe, and -

And then it’s gone. Just as it came, the nausea dies down, and Dean reaches out, grabs the water, splashes it all over his face and fucking _breathes_. 

In, out. 

In, out.

So Sam buried fake Cas - who _cares_. That guy was probably a dick, anyway. Hell, Dean remembers how Cas used to be like -

(hot as fuck and sharp and dangerous)

\- a complete _idiot_ , a corporate goon. Nothing fucking more. And if _that_ version of him is dead - yeah, okay, it fucking _sucks_ , but so does everything else. And his death is not on Dean, anyway.

(Yeah, right.)

The guy just chose to, what, walk into a time space rift as if it was nothing? Jesus, angels are such mindless _fuckers_.

And Cas is alright.

( _Sure thing, Deano._ )

He’s probably trapped in that place, okay, so it’s up to them to get him out like it’s up to them to do everything fucking else, but he and Mom - they’ll be okay. Hell - they’ve been through worse, both of them. Toasting marshmallows over demon fires in a demon world with fake Bobby - yeah, that sounds like a blast.

Better than what they’ve got going on here, at any rate.

Dean crashes the empty bottle between his hands, throws it against the wall - hard.

As he stands up, he wonders if there’s something else that should be on his radar, because okay, so they’ve got a psychotic half-demon on the loose, but that’s it, right? Like - Jody - Jody was fine?

(What did he and Jody talk about?

He doesn’t really remember.)

The room is spinning around him, but only just - as if someone’s given a very small, hesitant pat on the roof of the Bunker - and Dean ignores it, his jaw clenching hard, his legs too weak, his stomach feeling halfway between too empty and too full. Slowly, he makes his way down to the big bathroom he shares with Sam - a locker room, really, with a long wooden bench screwed down to the floor facing a row of individual shower stalls - sees there’s a pile of clean clothes and a folded towel in front of the closest one, and walks straight in without bothering to get undressed.

This is how Cas showered that one time, he thinks, turning his face up towards the hot water, and he almost wants to cry at the memory, because he doesn’t know what kind of nightmare had woken him up - Hell is always a safe bet, but there’s plenty more to choose from, falling and crashing the car and running after Sam on that summer day of 2001, his kid brother getting smaller and smaller, disappearing against the horizon as Dean is stuck in place, shouting himself hoarse - but he _does_ remember, clear as day, walking all the way down to this room and finding Cas under the shower, his trench coat soaked through, his dark slacks sticking to his legs.

_What the hell, man?_ he’d asked, completely bewildered, and Cas had turned to look at him in that serious way he had.

_It seemed to help when I was human_ , he’d answered, _but I can’t really feel anything now_.

And Dean - Dean had wanted to point out that this is how water works, dumbass - that it doesn’t do much for you unless you’re naked, because, yeah, getting wet with your clothes on is just uncomfortable as fuck, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, but at the same time there had been something swelling in his throat, filling his mouth with a bittersweet whatever, because telling Cas to actually _undress_ \- Dean had just stared at Cas’ face instead, at the way droplets of water were clinging to his eyelashes, had thrown up his hands in exasperation and stepped out before he could say anything idiotic, 

(revealing, compromising, shameful, completely inappropriate)

because Cas just didn’t see the point, the stupid bastard - he would have said he could get dry with a snap of his fingers, so why bother, and Dean - Dean hadn’t wanted to think about that Cas, okay, about that - that _thing_ that moved around the Bunker like a ghost, turning ‘the Netflix’ on and off just by looking at it - that thing that drank overly sweet coffees without actually tasting anything and spent days and days and days stretched out on Sam’s bed, his eyes big and haunted by the blue light of the screen. And it was okay that Cas could do that - that he could reach out and heal cuts with a soft touch of his fingers, that he had wings Dean would never be able to see, but - whenever shit like that happened, there was always a fucking beacon shining down on them all - Chuck’s light, maybe, or just common sense - a kind of, _You don’t get him and you never will_. And that, right there - Cas showering with his clothes on, the water hot enough to blister - that was the universe telling them both this wasn’t _working_ \- that this wasn’t Cas’ world or Cas’ home, that he wasn’t happy, that he wasn’t okay, and there was nothing Dean could do to make it better - no way to ever fix it.

The Bunker suddenly feels gigantic around him, a vast, unfriendly tomb - Dean wonders if Sam’s already started to clean up the bodies, hisses in annoyance when the water suddenly gets colder. He quickly undresses himself, then, pushing his wet, dirty clothes against the shower stall wall his his foot, and then reaches for the soap - this is normally where Sam showers, so all he finds is some kind of fancy, organic body wash with a picture of lemons and leaves on the front - he squirts out a generous dose of it, and starts scrubbing his skin clean, his mind and heart a blank, desolate bout of nothing.

Ten minutes later, the world feels like a slightly better place. Dean is dry, now, and clean-shaven. He also smells faintly of citrus (how the hell does Sam stand it, anyway?), and he’s just about to inspect the pile of fresh clothes Sam’s left out for him when he’s hit by a sharp memory, as if by a physical blow - Sam coming into Jody’s room, handing her his tablet. And apparently, there’s still some part of his brain that isn’t shot to hell yet, some part that kept working and working as Dean was trying to drown it and throw it up and make it go the fuck _away_ , because Dean is deeply and immediately aware of what’s going on and what the implications are.

_Sam, please come._

“Oh, fuck _no_ ,” he mutters; and, forgetting about the clothes, he turns around and heads for the kitchen, a hand on his waist to secure his towel.

The Bunker’s corridors are colder than they have any right to be, but Dean doesn’t care. There’s nothing after them now, after all, and no one wanting to live here with them, because everyone is dead and Cas is gone and Mary’s gone and even Ketch, the fucking bastard, is probably lying in their crypt right about now, glassy-eyed and silent, his Abigail Gabble accent and his _Come and ride me_ stare gone forever from the world, so what does it _matter_ , uh? If Dean wants to walk around stark fucking naked in this fucking place, he’ll fucking do it.

As he turns a corner, Dean suddenly remembers Jody is likely still around, but it’s too late to go back to his room now, and Jody’s seen naked men before, right? She’s a sensible woman - of course she has. And Dean’s not _naked_ , anyway, so it doesn’t even count - and more than that, there’s just this _need_ inside him right now, this resentful, desperate _anger_ , this _drive_ to just fucking _get_ to Sam, to get to Sam before -

“You’re _not_ going,” he snaps a bit too loud, as he catches sight of Sam, who’s already sitting in his usual seat at the kitchen table, his laptop open, an empty jug of coffee and a cup in front of him. 

To Dean’s annoyance, he doesn’t even look up.

It’s still clear he hasn’t slept, though, or - not much. 

(Not _enough_ , that is, and _goddammit_ , look at the stupid kid - sometimes Dean feels he’s spent his entire goddamn life telling Sam to turn the light off and fucking go to sleep, and - _fuck_.)

“Yeah? And you’re stopping me how, exactly?”

They haven’t talked about this, not at all, and yet it’s like they’re picking up a conversation they’ve been having for weeks, and maybe it’s because they have, right, because this is something they’ve been discussing for years and years and years, and Dean’s suddenly tired, fed up, completely _done_ with it.

“I’ve got a room full of weapons,” he says, drily. “I’ll think of something.”

The thing is, he’s not even sure he doesn’t mean that. He’s watched Sam walk away too many times before, and this time - this time feels even worse, because Jack Kline - because that thing took Cas, and it took Mom, and if it takes Sam, then what the hell is Dean even supposed to _do_?

God, what hadn’t they killed it when they had the chance?

Sam finally looks up, pushes his hair back. He just inspects Dean for a moment, and Dean thinks Sam looks as annoyed as he is, feels he knows exactly why - this is what, the thousandth time Sam’s had to push Dean into some kind of bed and hope he wouldn’t choke to death on his own vomit? The thousandth time he’s had to go and fetch pills and a clean shirt for him, the thousandth time he must have wondered if Dean was even _worth_ it, the dumb piece of shit, because look at Dad - it would have been better, in a way, if Dad had died in that fire back in Lawrence - sure as _fuck_ would have saved him years of bad liver and grief, of a life spent resenting everyone and everything, turning into his own worst enemy. And if Sam hadn’t driven Dean to the hospital all those years ago, if he’d left him the hell alone with his first ever alcohol poisoning, well - would that have been a bad choice, all things considered? A loss of any kind?

Dean stays there and tries not to let his thoughts come too close to the surface as Sam sort of nods at his fluffy cream-colored towel in mock approval and then looks down again, peering into the empty cup with a resigned huff.

“You’re not Mom, Dean,” he says, all red eyes and worn out vowels, and Dean sees, in the sudden tightening on his jaw, that Sam’s realized, a split second too late, that he shouldn’t have said what he’s just said; but then Sam starts clicking on his keyboard again, frowning at the screen, at himself, at the world, and Dean wants to let it go, he does, because Sam looks like he hasn’t slept in a week and this is _not_ the time, okay?, it’s _really_ not, but he’s getting colder and colder and it just bursts out of him, low and angry.

“I know that. You think I don’t _know_ that?”

“I didn’t mean -” Sam starts, staring in a deliberate, determined way at whatever’s on the screen.

“The _hell_ you didn’t mean it.”

Fuck, what’s _wrong_ with them? The _last_ thing Dean wants - the last _fucking_ thing - is to fight with Sam, who’s the only goddamn thing he’s got left in this world. He wants to close that distance between them, he wants to hug his stupidly tall, overworked and heartbroken brother - he wants to push him into bed with a mug of something hot and strong, and make sure Sam sleeps for a damn week and watches cartoons for another month after that.

But things - things have a way of just happening around him, and Dean’s got no control over it, never did - he can’t say what he means, hasn’t got the words for it, or even the fucking _balls_ , and he’s not good enough, anyway, he can’t stop this black anger that’s been mounting and mounting inside him since fucking forever from spilling over, can’t stop himself from becoming his own damn father, can’t - 

(Jesus - when Crowley had said people tend to die around him, Dean had -

But Crowley’s dead now, so who the _hell_ cares?)

\- can’t turn it off, because they’ve got _nothing_ now, and Sam doesn’t _get_ it - Sam wants to believe it’ll be alright, and Dean’s seen his version of alright, okay, and it’s this useless belief other people care and someone else will fix it and it’s possible to just walk the fuck away and man, the stupid floor is ice-cold now and Dean should really, really just turn tail and go get dressed and at least get himself a decent breakfast before -

“Dean,” Sam says, and his voice is almost too quiet now, but Dean still hears, clear as day, the manic, hopeful note inside it, finds himself resenting the fuck out of it. “It’s just - Jack is good news. I can feel it.”

“For fuck sake’s, Sammy -”

“Look - we don’t have to discuss it right now. It’s - early,” Sam says, randomly, and it looks like he’s guessing - or, at least, he’s got to glance down at his monitor to be sure that it is, in fact, morning, “and I know you’re still beat, I know you’re not thinking clearly because Cas -”

Sam looks up then, seems to realize he’s made a mistake, opens his hands in a gesture of surrender, as if - as if he’s got any right to ask for it, to talk about this shit in the first place.

“I meant -” he tries to add, but Dean won’t have it.

“Oh, and _you_ are? Thinking clearly, that is?”

There’s still some decency left inside him, and that’s how Dean knows he sounds like a jerk, and that he should stop. _Sam’s lost people too_ , says that part of him, sharp and serious. _He’s lost Eileen, and Mom, and Cas, same as you. And he hasn’t slept, and he’s still that kid, remember? The one who’d build houses and castles in the backseat of the Impala, his Lego people sliding under the seats, crowding against the windows as Sam pushed them against the glass so they could ‘look outside’, their little engineer faces staring blankly at field after field as Sam explained about cows and horses._

_He’s still that kid, Dean. He’s your brother_ , the voice says; and, a split second later, _Back the fuck off_.

But then, then Sam looks up at him, his face a bit too pale, his eyes clear and bright.

“I have faith,” he says, stubbornly, and those words inside Dean - words like _I’m sorry_ and _Let’s get you some breakfast_ and _We’ll fix this shit, okay?_ just blacken and curl up and fade away in smoke and ashes.

“Yeah,” Dean snorts, tightening the towel around his waist, “and we’ve all seen where that leads.”

Sam clicks another couple of words into existence.

“I know I’ve made mistakes, but - no, okay? I _know_ that, but Dean - all my life, I’ve had faith, and I was _right_ , wasn’t I?”

_Fucking hell, what - is this all it takes?_ Dean wonders, half shocked and half sad and completely furious, as those church billboards resurface in his memory. A few kind words, a cry for help, and look at Sam - look at this damaged goods, bleeding heart idiot.

“You were _right_?” he asks, in disbelief, and Sam juts his chin out.

“I always knew angels were real,” he says, steadily. “I always knew God was real.”

Dean laughs - he just can’t help himself.

“Yeah, so they were real,” he says, and there’s such venom in his voice he’s almost surprised Sam doesn’t train a gun on him, “lucky us, uh?”

He’s so angry now he could actually _hurt_ Sam, because he _remembers_ it, okay? He remembers Cas showing up and breaking every single window in that abandoned gas station and making his ears bleed - he remembers Cas burning Pamela’s eyes out, and he remembers, most of all, Cas threatening _Sam_ \- God, if Dean thinks at the way Sam had fallen all over himself in that darkened motel room, how _eager_ he’d been to bow down and fucking kneel in front of those - those so-called angels of the Lord - how Cas had stared back, while that other dick Uriel had looked like he’d wanted to wipe his hands on his pants, because angels - it was all a fucking _joke_. And, sure, Cas had changed, but Sam can’t seriously sit there and _pretend_ \- he can’t _say_ \- fuck it, their lives were so much _better_ before - Dean used to think they couldn’t sink any lower, okay, he used to hide stuff from social workers and bandage his own cuts and broken bones in filthy motel bathrooms and think, _It will get better because nothing’s fucking worse than this_ , but man - angels and God - that had been a whole other level of insanity and hurt and fucking _unfair_ , and what is Sam even going on about? 

“Lucky us,” he says again, just to taste the words in his mouth and spit them out at all those people who’re not listening - at Crowley, who had no fucking right to bow out like that, at Mom for not being there and not trusting them and not even _liking_ them much of the time, and, most of all, at Cas, because _goddammit_ , he’d _told_ the guy never to die again, never to walk out on him again, and he’d put his own life on the line for him, again and again and again, and apparently that meant _nothing_ to Cas, fucking _nada_ , and Dean can’t even -

“Well, Jack’s trying to communicate with me, I’m sure of it. And I’m not a child anymore, you can’t -” Sam says, picking up his cup, remembering it’s empty, and putting it down again.

“Can’t what? Keep you the fuck _alive_?” Dean barks. “Watch me.”

He starts to walk away, then, rubs his left hand on his right arm, on his chest, trying to warm the fuck up, but - yeah - Sam calls his name, softly, pleadingly, a sound that’s between common sense and resentment and also pain, and Dean turns around again.

“ _Dean_ \- Dean, come on - we got to at least -”

“I was always the only one,” Dean says quietly, his right hand closing on the towel in anger. “The _only_ one, Sam. I was the only one who gave a _fuck_ about keeping you and even Dad alive. Why do you think you always had food on the table? And who was it that made sure you were signed up for school, year in and year out? Who got you books and clothes and fucking shoes? Who do you fucking _think_? Dad was too obsessed with Yellow Eyes to even -”

Dean makes a kind of gesture in mid-air, thinks he might be sick again, and he’s not even sure if it’s the cold, the hangover or the sheer fury that’s making him shake, that’s putting a bitter taste in the back of his mouth.

“I know that. I’m grate-”

“You don’t know a damn _thing_! I was alone, okay? And you can go on all you want about Sully -”

“I never -” Sam says, and he’s standing up, now, looks appalled, shocked - Dean doesn’t know where this Sully shit is coming from, but he can’t stop talking, he can’t think straight, because goddammit, they were so _close_ \- they were - and now -

“- well, guess _what_? While you were having the fucking time of your life with him, and with that fucking dog, and with Jess, I was out there with a fucking _drunk_ , getting shot at and bitten and _fucking_ -”

“Dean -”

“I was _seven_ when Dad first brought me with him,” Dean shouts, “and you know why he did that? Because he needed fucking _bait_! A clean soul, or some shit. And if Bobby hadn’t been there -”

And here it is again - Dean can’t breathe right, is almost shaking with cold and nausea and something that could be regret, because Sam - Sam looks _crushed_.

“So don’t give me that shit about having _faith_ ,” Dean says, forcing the words out like you would poison from a wound. “You’ve got faith 'cause of _me_ , Sam, because I taught you those dumb prayers Mom used to say with me, and I was _wrong_ , okay? I was fucking _wrong_. There’s no good news, Sammy. Nobody gives a _fuck_ about us.”

For a long moment, they just stand there. They look at each other, then away. Dean tries to think about anything that isn’t this, right now, but the thing is, there’s nothing - nothing else. There’s the Devil’s kid who’s out somewhere, and there’s a Bunker they’re probably not safe in, and there’s dead people everywhere - their whole family, their friends, Cas, Eileen - all of them, gone. And Dean knows it doesn’t matter if Sam’s still got faith - that it’s a good thing, even, that hope - hope is the only way either of them will make it out and win whatever the fuck is still left to win, but he just - he just can’t. Not anymore.

He’s _done_.

Sam takes a hesitant step forward.

“Dean, this is different,” he says, and he’s so - so _sure_ , Dean is very, very close to hitting him.

“ _Jesus_. It’s not _different_. Sam - these people - these _things_ \- remember what happened the last time you had faith?” Dean says, and his voice drops to something that’s as cold as the floor under his feet. “Lucifer got out. We almost got killed - you, me and Cas, because you were fucking _wrong_.”

There’s another pause. Sam picks up the empty jug of coffee, makes half a move towards the sink, as if thinking of rinsing it out and brewing a fresh one - as if this is a normal conversation, just a work thing they can solve over breakfast.

As if there’s anything they _can_ solve, anywhere safe they can go and be in this world.

“Look, you know I’m grateful for everything you did for me,” he finally says, but it sounds rehearsed - hollow, like a badly tuned instrument. “I _am_. But this is just - personal. I can’t - I can’t explain it. Faith is just personal, man. And it’s okay you don’t have it, it’s okay we’re different. Like I wanted to go to Stanford and -”

_It’s okay you don’t have it._

Dean wonders if Cas would agree with that, wonders what faith even is and how Sam, and even fucking _Cas_ , can say Dean hasn’t got any with such - with such damn _authority_. Because Dean’s been on his knees a _lot_ of times, okay?, and sometimes for good reasons, too. He’s prayed to Cas so long and hard he’s gone hoarse - Benny had made fun of him, but he’d still backed off when it mattered, because he _got_ it - how faith can be in a person, that is, in something you feel inside you, and not - not to a God who builds cities and forests and writes cat blogs and then gets tired of it all and fucking walks away. So it’s unfair, okay? It’s a low blow, it’s what it is, and Dean - Dean’s learned to fight for his life, he’s learned against bigger kids and monsters, and as much as he wants to drop this and go back to bed and start a better day tomorrow, he just can’t stop.

“Stanford?” he says, before he can think better of it. “ _I_ got you to Stanford, bitch. _Me_. I forged Reggie Stanley’s letter, okay?”

Sam freezes, holds the glass pot in front of his chest, as if to protect himself.

“What?”

“The one you needed? The big shot lawyer who was going to get you in?”

“I don’t -”

“Guess what: he _hated_ you,” Dean says, and he’s enough of an asshole there’s some satisfaction in finally saying this out loud after twenty years. “Or, whatever - he liked your work well enough, but fuck - you were sleeping in a car when you clerked for him, Sam. Remember that? And when he wrote back, that’s what he said - that in his ‘learned opinion’, you would have done better in a ‘different environment’ or some shit.”

Sam takes a step back, drops into the chair.

“You never _wanted_ me to go. We fought for weeks. _Months_.”

“You wanted to go,” Dean shrugs, and finds all fight has just - leaked out of him. He leans against the wall, rubs his hand over his chest again, trying to warm himself up. “So when I saw that letter - and writing a different one, that wasn’t enough. You know what I wanted to do? I wanted to go back to his office and fucking beat him up, the fucking _dick_ , because you’re right, Sam - we _are_ different - you’re the one who’s got faith and some goodness left inside you - you’re the one who went to Stanford - and I’m just - I’m a fucking drop-out who likes to beat the shit out of people.”

“You don’t mean that,” Sam says, slowly. “Dean, I _never_ -”

“I do.” Dean closes his eyes, exhausted. “I _really_ do. The rush you get from it - nothing like it. And this kid - this _thing_ \- the way he was manipulating Cas, and using Kelly and brainwashing everyone - he’s the fucking _same_. Same as Lucifer, same as Alastair and Yellow Eyes and Ruby - same as me.”

Sam says nothing. Dean suddenly remembers the split second of relief on Jody’s face when he’d told her about Crowley - how she’d said, _He was a demon_. Remembers writing that note to Sam, blinking at the paper with his black eyes - the relief he’d felt, the savage joy in finally, _finally_ walking away from it all.

(A sense of purpose, that is, also the obligations that come with it.

And love.)

_That's why you're here, Dean_ , Benny had said, his blue eyes turning green in the non light of Purgatory. _That's the purity you crave - killing with no consequence._

“Takes one to know one, I guess.”

Sam is still not saying anything. When Dean opens his eyes and stands up straight again, he sees Sam is looking away, at that place on the wall where, in a normal kitchen, there would be a window. He’s even paler now, unhappy. Defeated.

“So we’re not going after him on his terms. We’re going to smoke him out and gut him, okay?” Dean says, only there’s another sentence under those words. 

_Are you listening to me,_ boy _?_

And Sam - Sam hears it.

_Fuck._

“Yes sir,” he says, without turning his head, and it’s bitter and sarcastic and exactly how he used to spit those words at Dad all those years ago.

Suddenly sure he’s going to throw up again, Dean turns around and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is about Sam and it's the first step to make this better. It will be up later today.


	8. Don’t Lose Your Mind (Don’t Lose Your Good Heart)

_Just know this time_  
_That you'll be waking up_  
_In all these better days_  
_This is how you walk on_  
_This is where you belong_

 

Sam can hear John’s words in Dean’s voice, and that’s why he gives up and drives away, keeping the sun behind him, collapsing against the wheel of the car when sleep finally overcomes him. He’s forgotten to take his pills, and he dreams a dream of golden eyes and wings and wide smiles; wakes up to find a no-nonsense woman knocking on the window - she’s on her way back from a family lunch, is what she says, and also: _God never gives us more than we can handle_. Sam accepts the tupperware she’s pushing into his hands (leftover ham and leftover fritters and two slices of thick skillet bread) because there seems to be no way out of it.

As he tosses the box on the empty seat next to him, he realizes he’s close enough to home he could probably be back by nightfall if he turns back right now. 

He doesn’t.

He keeps going, the wide Kansas landscape growing darker and darker around him, the events of the past week crowding the windshield, making it hard to see.

When he finds a church, it's late - the door is closed, but breaking into places is almost second nature by now, as easy and natural as using a key.

It’s a Catholic church. Sam walks to the font, crosses himself. He thinks of Lucifer blessing him, one hand in his hair, holding his head back, his thumb light and gentle on Sam’s forehead.

 _I am still an angel, Sam_ , he’d said - half a promise, half a threat. _You and me - we don’t let our path be traced by others._

That had been - seven, eight years ago?

And now, now - whatever that thing between them is, Sam doesn’t know if Lucifer can actually control it. At this point, he thinks not, because Lucifer - it’s not like he _wants_ him anymore. If Cas hadn’t stepped in, Lucifer would have killed him all those months ago - Sam knows as much. So this is not - anything he’s seen before. It’s not Lucifer - seducing him, deliberately stepping into his dreams and kissing him with Jess’ face and talking in a voice of blooming flowers and falling snow about happiness and quiet and redemption. And it’s not that other thing, either - Sam is not making this up, he’s not a victim of his own splintered and crazed mind, seeing stuff where there is nothing, making up a dangerous enemy because it can’t stand the silence.

(Unless -

 _No_.

He’s okay.

He’s _fine_.) 

This is - different.

Sam never said anything to Dean, because Dean would have worried and gotten even angrier, and what can either of them really do against an archangel, really? They’ve been lucky in the past, but that’s all it was - luck.

Also, well - Lucifer’s not doing it on purpose. Sam doesn’t think so.

(Which doesn’t mean it’s not important, but likely makes the situation - less dangerous.

Maybe.)

Still, it’s been - disquieting, to say the least. The cold, of course, is what he’d noticed first - he’d felt it back at the very beginning, when he’d still been sure God was speaking to him, but he’d chalked it up to the pestilence, then the exhaustion. And next, the - _touches_ had come. Because months after those events, after they’d all assumed Lucifer was dead, Sam had sort of started - _feeling_ him. Stuff like, his own eyes would turn into bright light for a split second and he’d be left there, speechless and terrified, his knuckles white on his razor. Stuff like, he’d get angry and frustrated when there was no reason to be (also sad - a lot). Stuff like, he’d move around in bed and feel other people in there with him - most often men - men built like he is, tall and heavy and warm on the sheets, drunk with sleep and sex. 

(When Lucifer had slept with Kelly, Sam had - he’d _been_ there. Not for the whole thing, and not even long enough to make sense of what was happening, but he’d still seen it - Kelly’s face flushed in pleasure, the soft sounds and soft curves of her under his mouth and hands.

He’d showered twice as long the next morning, had tried to tell himself it was just a dream, but it was never just a dream, was it? Not with them.)

Sam had felt Lucifer’s savage joy when the Nephilim had been conceived, though, of course, he hadn’t realized its cause at the time. He’d felt pain, as well, and he’d assumed that was the Cage - Michael torturing Lucifer, perhaps, or Lucifer torturing himself. It was hard to tell. Later on, he’d learned this was Crowley’s work, and that hadn’t surprised him: Crowley had always loved punching above his weight.

And now - now everything is silent.

Of course, it’s only been two days, but Sam thinks this silence will last - wherever Lucifer is, he can’t reach them. He can’t reach _him_. Hell, he probably would if he could - Lucifer’s proven he _will_ find Sam if he thinks he can gain something from it -

(And he’d been _right_ , hadn’t he? There was _always_ something to be gained there, because Sam was stupid enough to trust and hope and believe, every time.

You _let him out, Sammy._

 _This is on_ you.)

\- so if he’s not doing that, he’s either dead or - trapped.

Which means Mom is -

Sam breathes in, counts in his head as he breathes out, steering his mind away from the thought. There’s no use in worrying, in despairing before they have to. He needs to keep a clear head, because God knows Dean won’t be much use to anyone until -

Another breath. Another dismissal of a useless thought. 

Sam doesn’t want to feel lonely inside his own head, but these - touches - this evidence of Lucifer losing control and spilling over, so to speak - it's been happening regularly enough, and long enough, that Sam now has to center himself and learn how to function without it.

And then, of course, there’s the other thing.

Alone in the church pew, Sam stares at the car keys in his hand and breathes in again, then out.

The keys shake, only just.

Sam closes his eyes, turns his face up, to where he knows the rose window is; almost thinks he can feel the sunlight of an early dawn coming through the colored glass, shining directly on him, warming him up.

The keys move again, and this time, as Sam breathes out he feels them leave his hand - looks down to see them floating about seven inches over his palm.

 _We’ve all seen where that leads_ , Dean’s voice says, and the keys get red hot - Sam moves to grab them, hisses in annoyance as they burn his skin - he drops them to the floor, looks around, ready to apologize for the noise, but the place is completely empty.

He’d hoped he’d find a priest here, but, truth be told, he’d also dreaded it. 

He’s ready to confess, but what would he even say? The only advice he truly needs is something along the lines of, _So, this demon spit his blood into my mouth when I was a baby and gave me these dark powers because he thought I’d be the next Prince of Hell, and then Lucifer came along and a bunch of stuff happened, and long story short - I think that when he put his hand through my chest and touched my soul - that was last year and yeah, if I had to guess, that’s when I became a freak again, full batteries, why his son wants me, because I can_ do _things, bad things and good, and I don’t even know - is the Devil happy about this, Father, or should I go ahead and do what I want and hope what I want is also the right thing to do?_

It’s funny how Cas and Dean had cared so much about this stuff and God never even thought to mention it.

God, that is - the guy who made them pancakes and broke his brother’s car. 

Sam remembers how Dean had almost collapsed against the wall when he’d seen the Impala trapped in the library, its hood a bit bent, its lights still blinking in distress.

 _I don’t care who he is_ , he’d hissed, pressing a closed fist over his mouth, _I’m fucking_ gutting _him_.

Jesus, that had been - Sam leans forward, almost laughs out loud.

“What’s so funny?” someone asks, and Sam drops the keys again as he turns around and sees a stunning woman standing next to his pew, looking down at him with mischief in her eyes.

For a split second, he thinks she may be a demon, but - Hell is a mess, no one is giving orders anymore, especially not now, and why would a demon walk into the Church of the Holy Trinity in Lawrence, Kansas? Surely none of those things is stupid enough to come after them on their own?

He glances back at the door - the door he apparently left unlocked - but it seems the woman is alone.

“Nothing, just,” he fumbles, awkwardly. “Demons.”

Great.

Good thing Dean can’t see him now - his smooth as fuck brother would never _ever_ let him live this down.

(And he’d be right not to, because okay, so Sam’s running on four hours of sleep, but still - that was truly pathetic.)

“Okay,” the woman says, slowly. “I’ll just move over there, then. In the non demon worshipper part of the church, I mean.”

Sam shakes his head at her.

“I think that, technically, the whole church is a non demon worshipping area,” he says, trying to sound disappointed so he can turn his worst interaction with women - with _people_ \- to date into some kind of joke. 

The woman’s smile widens.

“Right. Forgot about that. So, any reason you were thinking about demons on this fine June morning?”

“Had a fight with my brother,” Sam says, and, to his surprise, the woman takes a step forward and sits down in the pew in front of his.

“Been there, done that. Not your brother, I mean,” she adds; and then, her eyes move unashamedly up and down what she can see of Sam’s body. “Though, if he’s anything like you, I wouldn’t mind.”

Sam laughs, and knows he’s blushing (only just, but _God_ ).

“What are you even _doing_ in a church?” he splutters.

“Are you saying women who enjoy having sex can’t be inside churches?”

“I’m sure there’s a Bible verse about that.”

“Yeah, there probably is, isn’t there? _Jesus_ ,” the woman says, before looking up at the cross behind her and muttering, “Sorry.”

“Seriously, though - I don’t want to stop you from -” Sam gestures at the altar vaguely, and the woman shakes her head.

“I have exams coming up, and my nana insisted this would help. So, you know - I just agreed I’d try it - here, I even have her rosary beads and all - but to be honest I’m not really feeling it.”

“What are you studying?”

“Journalism.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah. Nicole Sedaris, future editor of the _New Yorker_. Nice to meet you.”

She stretches her right hand out, like this is some formal and serious occasion, and Sam shakes it.

“Sam Campbell,” he says, because that’s mostly the name they use around town.

“So, Sam Campbell, what did you and your hot brother fight about?”

Sam thinks about the note he’d left Dean the previous morning. _Getting groceries_ , he’d scribbled in an old notebook, before heading out. He wonders if he’s actually going back to the Bunker some time today or if that note was some sort of cover. If so, his hasn’t been a very successful escape so far: twelve hours, and he’s made it all of two hundred miles.

On the other hand, the stuff sitting on the backseat of his car right now? Bullets, salt, and snacks for the road.

Also two bottles of prescription Provigil, just in case.

(If there’s an NSA agent watching Peter Dirnt’s credit card activity, he must think the guy’s got a very interesting life.)

The thing is, Sam’s spent his entire life fighting with Dean. The two of them have perfected this into an art form, because that’s what sharing a room for thirty years does to you, and yet - yet they’re always caught by surprise at just how much it fucking _hurts_. They’re like pro wrestlers who suddenly, and without reason, start to truly hit each other. And Sam knows his brother’s grieving, knows Dean’s doing the best he can and that his heart’s in the right place, but - _fuck_. On days like today, he seriously doesn’t know how much more he can take of this - of his own life not being his own at all.

It’s stupid to feel this way, especially now, with Jack out there and that other world they know nothing about looming over them and everyone who’s died on them, but Stanford - Stanford was supposed to be _his_ thing. His _dream_. He’d worked his ass off to get in there. He’d given up on girls and hunts to study for his LSAT (with mixed regret, to be fair). And his internship for Stanley  & Cooper - he’d _fought_ for that, and he’d given it his goddamn _all_ \- he’d slept two hours a night for a whole summer, he’d gone through so many boxes of evidence and documents he’d gotten rashes on his hands and face from dust and old ink, and he’d - he’d been the _best_. He’d found a way to nail Portland’s most infamous white supremacist for a fifteen year old murder, for fuck’s sake.

 _Dean never said you weren’t the best_ , a voice had said, on and off through the night. _He never said you didn’t deserve it._

Sam had mostly ignored it, because - okay, so it was right, but also -

Stanford had been the last thing to be truly _his_. He never had any choice during his childhood, and God knows he’s had little choice since, but Stanford - that had been all him.

Or so he’d thought.

“Dean is,” he says now, in short, hesitant bits of sentence, “overprotective. Older brother, you know.”

Nicole actually reaches out and touches him, humming in appreciation as her hand closes on his biceps.

“You don’t look like you need protecting.”

 _I don’t_ , Sam’s about to say, but the words won’t come out. 

(It’s simply not true, is it? In the end, he’s chosen to stick with this, to be a hunter, and hunters - they _always_ need protection. This isn’t a job you do alone, unless you’ve got a death wish.)

“He thinks he always knows best,” he says, realizing as soon as the sentence is out that it’s childish and not enough and also a lie - Dean tends to take charge when they’re out fighting, and does it well, but he’s not nearly as stubborn as Sam can be - can be reasoned with and talked to and -

They’ve just got a different MO, really. Head choices and heart choices - only these last - whatever - it’s been fucking _difficult_ to tell which is which.

Hell, Sam doesn’t even know anymore.

“Yeah, older brothers are like that. A pain in the ass.” Nicole lets go of his arm, starts playing with her rosary beads instead. “So, you’re hoping he’ll help?”

She’s pointing at the painting above them now - not the best Jesus Sam’s ever seen, if he’s got to be honest - there’s something a bit too smug about the way he’s looking at Mary Magdalene wash his feet, and his left hand’s only got four fingers.

“Something like that. And what are you - what’s the deal with these exams?” he asks, just to be polite, because he remembers what that’s like - the sleepless nights, the frustration, the deep-seated fear you’re just not good enough.

Nicole crosses her legs, huffs in annoyance.

“It’s not the exams, really - it’s my thesis. Our supervisor’s obsessed with World War Two, and he’s got everyone working on these boring things - media propaganda and historic similes and I don’t know what else. I’m trying to write about Magneto because, you know, _technically_ it still fits, but he’s not on board. Yet.”

“Magneto - the _X-Men_ guy?”

“Not really an X-Man, but, yes.” Nicole smiles up at him, and something of that grown woman flirtatiousness - that open invitation - slides off her as she starts talking about it. 

(Sam finds himself thinking she’s much more attractive right now, as she goes on and on about this Erik guy and how the Holocaust’s been integrated into American comics, than she was when she was actively trying to come on to him. 

He doesn’t know whether that makes him a jerk or not.

 _You wanna be the prey, Sammy_ , Dean had told him once, when Sam was fifteen and couldn’t get a girl to go out with him to save his life. _I know there’s all this bullshit around about alpha wolves and whatever, but women - they want to hunt you down. They want to corner you and sink their teeth in your neck._

 _That doesn’t sound right_ , Sam had replied, applying another layer of acne cream to his chin.

_Trust me - the asshole act only works up to a point._

_It’s working for you, isn’t it?_

_That’s because it’s not an act. I actually_ am _an asshole._

_Not news, Dean._

Dean had laughed, and that had been the end of it, but as Sam watched him drive away to some party in Dad’s car while he was stuck at home to finish his Edgar Allan Poe essay, he’d realized, for the very first time, that Dean wasn’t only acting for hunts; that as good as he was at playing the lost orphan or the tough guy for police officers and morgue assistants and gang members, he was acting around _them_ too - around Dad, and even around Sam himself. Sam had been smack in the middle of his short-lived theater obsession back then, so that sudden clarity had felt profound, world-tilting, and _true_ in a way your feelings always are when you’re fifteen, and that’s why he’d studied Dean for the next two weeks, tried to see through the layers so he could - discover some hidden reality about Dean, perhaps, or about life itself; and then Tracy Williams had agreed to date him out of the blue and he’d forgotten about the matter completely.)

“If you had powers, would you use them?” he asks Nicole, and she doesn’t even need to think about it - there’s a kind of excitement in her eyes that shows this is something she’s discussed many times before - probably even written an essay about.

“Yeah. Duh. I mean, who wouldn’t? Save the world, and things?”

“But - what about Magneto?”

“What about him?”

Sam glances at his keys. They look perfectly ordinary now. He closes his hand, passes the thumb around the slightly jagged metal edge, presses down until it hurts.

“You always think you’re the hero, right? But what if you were the villain all along?”

Nicole claps her hands in delight.

“That’d be _awesome_. You should write that.”

“That’s not an answer.”

There was a time when Sam used to feel he was the only one facing this - this thing - this gradual splintering of reality and ethics, this readjustment of the world outside him to the powers he felt growing inside him. Hell, when he’d first banished a demon with his mind - he still dreams about that. Unwillingly, of course, and he always feels guilty when he wakes up, but that had been -

And then, slowly, as life took and took and took, he’d realized this is simply what it means to be human. We all value our own happiness and peace of mind more than other people’s. We all think we’re justified in doing what we do if we mean well. We all start out - or, well, that vast majority of the population who’s got a standard brain and can feel empathy - we all start out thinking we’ll go that far, and no further. We say we’ll never hurt another person, until we discover it’s harder _not_ to hurt someone than it is to hurt them. We say we’ll never work for a shady corporation until we discover just how much _better_ the pay is. We say we won’t become our parents, but we _all_ , inevitably, do. 

We say we’ll be the best possible versions of ourselves, but we just _aren’t_ \- not by laziness, or malice - simply by design. 

_Humans are starving, damaged creatures, but there's beauty even in broken bones - isn't there, Sam?_

Which meant that Sam - Sam wasn’t that _special_. Because demon blood, and visions, and even hunting - that wasn’t the norm, perhaps, but everything else - God, his meteoric descent into crazier and crazier choices had been so _predictable_ it almost hurt.

Guy on his path to righteous revenge dooms the world - Sam’s sure every single one of those crap movies Dean watches is about that.

But if he can’t trust his heart, and he can’t trust his moral compass -

“Erik stopped listening to Charles,” Nicole says, spinning the rosary beads around her finger in a way that’s surely not Church-approved. “There’s always one friend who’s the voice of reason in these stories, or - wait, it’s not even that, it’s - Charles _loved_ Erik, and Erik didn’t listen to him. That’s how you cross the line - you isolate yourself from everyone, you want to do everything alone. You think nobody _understands_ you, or some shit. It's a slippery slope.”

Sam nods. Thinks vaguely that they’re out of - well - everything. That he might as well get some bacon and eggs, maybe some yoghurt. Dean always says he doesn’t like it, but every time Sam buys a tub the thing disappears - sometimes overnight.

“Anyway - can I kiss you?”

“What?”

It’s not like Nicole’s been shy about things, but the question is still completely unexpected - almost _shocking_ in its innocent bluntness. Sam stares at her - tries not to notice how her pink t-shirt hugs her breasts, how full and soft they are - and realizes he’s got no idea what to say to this woman. It’s not even eight on a Saturday morning - if he says yes, a kiss could lead to coffee, and then to lunch, and then to a lazy weekend in her flat, and Sam thinks her room might look a bit like his did, back in Stanford - faded movie posters on the walls, a quote on the door (something literary, vaguely nonsensical) - the odd plate peering down from a shelf, left over and forgotten after a night spent on the books - he could go back to the Bunker on Monday, or not at all, because maybe it would be better, safer, for Sam to go and talk to Jack on his own.

And if he says no -

If he says no, Eileen’s mouth will still be the last taste left on his lips.

Sam doesn’t want to kiss this woman, because there’s something inside him, hiding under nights unslept and worry for his mother and that empty spot were Cas should be, with his weary one-liners always on the verge of becoming sarcasm (Dean never notices, though), under the weight of his complicated, ocean deep love for his brother, under his own guilt and resentment for this life he’s never chosen - under all that black and loud and unforgiving _mess_ \- that’s where he put Eileen, and the fact Eileen’s dead now, like that one kiss they shared, like that possible future they could have had. And that’s why his first instinct is to do what he did all those years ago, after he’d come back from a hunt to find Jess burning on the ceiling - he wants to walk away from this and grieve, and never think of love or sex again. He wants to believe that this time, this time he’ll be strong enough to accept that he’ll be alone forever, because it’s safer for everyone and what it’s owed to the memory of the woman he loved.

(He didn’t quite love Eileen, not yet; but he’d been right there, on the very edge.

He thinks it was the same for her.)

But one thing he’s learned is that time - it doesn’t stop and it doesn’t wait and it’s got no patience for people’s feelings. _You can’t half-ass life_ , as Bobby would say. You’ve got to go out there and just - live it, and this exhaustion Sam’s feeling - it’s the lack of sleep, of course it is, and also the sudden empty space - those faded patches in his mind which are the only memory of what Lucifer used to be, of the bond between them - but it’s also - Sam wants to know he’s his own person. He wants to talk to Jack because he can feel that’s the right thing to do, and he wants to do it with Dean by his side, because Dean’s his brother and Sam can’t imagine a life without him, and he wants - he wants to _function_ again, to be _normal_ \- he’s spent half of his life grieving, raw pain consuming him and carving him from the inside out like rotten fruit - he’s spent _years_ regretting a mother he never got to meet, a father who never knew how to love him the way Sam wanted to be loved - friends and girlfriends lost to new schools and new cities - and _Jess_ -

Sam can’t take it anymore. He’s chosen to be a hunter, and hunters die, like people do, because this is what life is - a balance between being and not being - and Sam will let it go.

All of it.

He needs to move forward. He need to stop living with _what if_ s and _if only_ s.

“I can’t stay,” he says, apologetically. “I have a long drive ahead.”

“Whoa - I wasn’t suggesting _marriage_ , Casanova, just - I don’t know - some sugar?”

“Some sugar.”

God, she’s lovely.

Sam thinks about Eileen looking up at him, pushes the memory away.

“I don’t know why people don’t kiss more often,” Nicole says, and she finally stops fidgeting with the beads. They sparkle on her fingers now, as clear and shiny as jewels. “It’s fun.”

She licks her lips, and Sam reaches over, pushes her hair behind her ear; moves closer.

She smells like flowers. _Orchids_ , he thinks, and isn’t there a recipe somewhere in the Bunker about an orchid-based paste that lets you see through the darkest night? Sam is trying to remember if it’s mentioned in Jennis’ _Musaeum Hermeticum_ or in Hennig Brand’s autobiography when Nicole closes the distance between them and kisses him, light and sweet at first, and Sam stops thinking, because it tastes like being and not being and a mistake and also the best choice he’s made all summer, which is three days long now, but already feels like it’s lasted forever.

# …

“What are you doing?”

Dean looks up. Sam knows Dean heard him coming, that he probably saw him ten miles out on one of the sensors they’d put on the road, and the fact he still chose not to move, not to even look at him until now - Sam recognizes this behavior. This is Dean feeling guilty as hell, and also, presumably, wanting a hug and thinking he doesn’t deserve one. Because why would he look up? Why would he come and greet Sam, what could he even say? It’s likely he kept drinking after Sam left, possible, in fact, that he can’t even get to his feet without stumbling -

(like Dad used to be, in his worst days)

\- and he wouldn’t want Sam to see that - truth is, they live in this bizarro world where they keep pretending Sam doesn’t notice any of that because it’s _easier_ , perhaps, to ignore how they both know Sam’s the one who carried him all the way to his room the other night, who explained the thing away to Jody, who came back after she’d left and put him in the recovery position, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his hip, and _pull_ \- the one who stood there for a couple of hours next to him, staring up into the darkness, wondering if it was safe to go away now -

(same thing Dean must have done for Dad, hundreds of times, though he never talks about it, probably thinks Sam doesn’t know)

\- because, of course, there’s still work to be done and that’s on them, and it doesn’t matter, never does, how many people they lose and how.

“House calls,” Dean offers, clearing his throat. “I, uhm, was going through the Brits’ ledger, found the kills from two weeks ago.”

“Mom and Ketch,” Sam says, moving the shopping bags to his other hand, adjusting his duffel.

“Yeah.” God, Dean looks even _worse_ than he did yesterday. “Anyway, been calling them up - the families - let them know what happened.”

Sam wants to say, _You didn’t have to do it_ , but, of course, sharing intel - especially on stuff that kills hunters - that’s something they have to do. It’s half of what the job is about, Bobby had told them, the tone of reproach barely managing to mask the shock at their lack of - well, not good manners, exactly, but - they’d been isolated for so many years, of course they hadn’t known that stuff.

(Dad had never cared about anything that wasn’t Yellow Eyes, so.)

“Anyway, this is the last one. Franny Giuliani.” Dean looks down again, punches a series of numbers on his phone, and Sam just stands there, half in pity, half in vindication, as his brother takes his punishment.

(His punishment for being human, that is; for hurting and for losing people and for not knowing when to back down.

His punishment for loving Sam way more than Sam deserves.)

“Yeah - this Tessa? Tessa Giuliani? Hi, Tessa. My name is Dean, and I’m -” Dean stops; he picks up his pocket knife, which had been planted blade down into the table, and flicks it between his fingers. “I was a friend of your sister’s.”

Sam wants to leave, then, because he simply can’t take any more of this - he’s tired of death, he’s tired of grief - he remembers, again, for what must be the thousandth time in the space of a week, the police officer who’d rung him to announce that Eileen was dead.

 _Eileen Leahy_ , he’d said. _Thirty-two, Irish national?_

Sam had mumbled something back.

 _You’re listed as next of kin, Mr Inman. Do you think it would be possible -_

It’d been clever of her to pick that name - something that, in a different universe, would have been a shared joke between them for years to come. They’d discovered a common love for Frazier’s _Cold Mountain_ during one of their Skype chats - Sam thinks it started when Eileen mentioned a vampire masquerading as a Civil War reenactor, and things had gone downhill from there, because Eileen was - had been - as passionate about history as he is. 

_I bought a copy in Mexico_ , he’d texted her, later that night, _because I was bored to death and it was the only book in English they had._

 _What were you doing in Mexico?_ she’d texted back, and Sam had sent her a wink emoji because he couldn’t exactly remember. Had that been the chaneque? Or the ahuizotl? Sam only remembers their camp - three tents on the outskirts of a small town, and the way Dean and Dad had talked and drunk late into the night with the hunter family who’d called them down there while he fended off the heat and the mosquitoes by walking in the snows of North Carolina with Inman. 

(It’s not that he hadn’t _wanted_ to get to know those people, but - it was like there was always something holding him back, like other people moved in a world that was so _different_ from his own he was never able to reach out and just - _connect_ with them.

He doesn’t know how Dean does it, really. He’d thought for years it was just a matter of - growing up, right, that Dean was better at this stuff because he’d been there a thousand times before, and way more than him - that once he’d slept with as many people Dean had and could drink without passing out, then it would get easier.

It never got easier, though.)

“I was sorry to hear that she passed,” Dean says, and the thing is, he _sounds_ sorry - as he talks about this Franny person, relaying anecdotes he probably heard from other people, he truly sounds like he was best friends with her; and when he gives this unnamed woman space to talk, he does so completely and unreservedly - in fact, Sam almost thinks Dean’s forgotten about his presence until Dean looks up again, and something softens on his face.

He clicks a key on his phone, and now Sam can hear it too - a woman’s voice, someone in her forties, perhaps, or older, speaking in a tired monotone with a faint Italian accent.

“I made my peace with it a long time ago,” the woman says, and Sam suddenly realizes he’s still holding the stupid groceries, really wants to move away and put them in the fridge, because he can’t -

“When Mickey was killed,” the woman continues, and Sam stays where he is, frozen in place, “it was just a thing that happened, you know? I was angry, of course, and - I was _heartbroken_ , Dean. We all were. Mickey was only fifteen, and nobody even knew - this policeman was going on and on about an animal attack - a bear in downtown Newark, can you imagine that?”

Dean laughs - Sam wouldn’t have laughed, but the woman laughs with him, so it was clearly the right response.

“But I told Franny, I told her, _Let it go. The Lord gives, the Lord takes away._ What’s the point in revenge, you know? Mickey was gone.”

Sam tunes out as the woman speaks of her sister going down a road of self-destruction - of alienating her entire family in a quest for demons and werewolves - looks away when Dean forces himself to explain to her what happened, and how her sister died - 

_She’ll be something like a teacher_ , Sam thinks, _or an office worker, and my mother shot her sister in the back._

But Mom is lost now, possibly dead, so what’s the point in thinking like that?

“Your sister was a hero,” Dean says, in the end. “She personally took down four nests of vampires over the last ten years - including the ones who killed your brother. I know it won’t bring her back, but I hope - I hope you can find some comfort in that.”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

“I can,” the woman says in the end. “I will. Thank you for calling me, Dean. And thank you for your service.”

A look of pure shock flashes across Dean’s face. The pocket knife he was playing with falls to the floor with a dull noise.

“What?”

“Well, I assume you are one of them, as well? A hunter?” The woman seems totally unaware of the effect her words are having on Dean. “And I know it’s not an official corps, or anything - I asked my brother-in-law once - twenty years he spent in the Marines, he knows his stuff - but still - thank you for your service.”

Before Dean can say anything to that, she hangs up. 

Sam drops the bags he’s holding, takes a step forward. 

Dean looks up at him.

“I wasn’t drinking,” he says, out of the blue. “When you were away, I mean.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, well - I wasn't.” Dean stands up, walks around the table, seemingly headed towards the discarded shopping bags. “Any chance there’s some bacon in there?”

“And eggs.”

They’re about two feet away from each other now, arms crossed, that post-fight awkwardness still hovering in the space between them.

Dean checks his watch.

“I can fry up some breakfast, if you want,” he says, looking up at Sam, then away.

 _He was sure I wouldn’t come back_ , Sam thinks, because he suddenly sees it - despite the note he'd left, despite all those times they’ve fought and made up, despite a life that’s bound them together both close and too close, Dean still expected him to walk away, and Sam -

“That’d be good.”

Dean moves forward, and he was already bending down to get the bags when he finally mans up and goes for Sam instead, hugging him fiercely, as if they hadn’t seen each other for years and years, his hands fisting in Sam’s shirt, gripping him so tight Sam swears his own ribs are cracking.

Sam hugs back, breathing in the familiar smell of Dean’s shampoo, his heart almost melting in relief at being home, and his eyes move past his brother’s hair.

The big map table is full of books and cups of coffee and empty cans - there’s not a single bottle in sight.

(Dean will be fine.

They both will.)

“I’ve been reading up on Nephilim,” Dean says, stepping back, looking away. “There’s no good way of ganking them, but there are runes we can use to protect ourselves if - if talking to him doesn’t work.”

“Sounds good,” Sam says.

They look at each other then, and Dean makes an odd gesture - almost reaches out to pat Sam’s chest, like a football coach or something, before shaking his head and picking up the shopping bags.

“Come on. Let’s plan this over pancakes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this makes it up a bit for the other chapter - and please let me know if I've done Sam justice? I like him a lot, but I feel like I don't really know him, so he's always so hard to write. I mostly wanted to give an impression of roaming, sad, scattered thoughts - there's so much stuff Sam's dealing with, I seriously don't know how he's still standing - so it'd be good to know if it's worked. Thanks!


	9. Electric Sheep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re not a sci-fi fan - the title is a homage to Philip K. Dick’s _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?_ , which inspired the amazing, perfect in every detail, _you must see this at once if you haven't seen it yet_ movie _Blade Runner_.

Cas knows about dreams. He remembers when animals first started dreaming - how he'd walked in bewilderment inside something that wasn’t quite a place, and certainly not his to desecrate. How he hadn’t been able to help himself, to turn his eyes from the wondrous beauty of it. 

A life within a life.

How - peculiar.

He’d tried discussing it with Balthazar once, but all he’d gotten in return had been a quizzical look. Dreams, Balthazar had told him, are simply the workings of an overactive and overdeveloped mind. Impulses and electricity coursing through a system that’s not quite functioning as it should. Cas had thought about it, focused and serious, because that’s how life was before Dean: a thing where laughter wasn’t a common occurrence, and light-heartedness neither encouraged nor appropriate to his rank and duty.

(Balthazar, of course, had been the exception, the one who shrugged off with false modesty those comparisons some drew between him and Gabriel - the lost archangel, the fabled joker.)

He’d never found a clever answer for his brother, a way to express that yes, this is what dreams were - and, for that matter, this is what all life was, themselves included - a web of physics and chemistry and a hint of mathematical perfection, nothing more (nothing less), and yet - _yet_ -

Because Cas had looked over a nameless mountain tribe as they discovered deeper and deeper caves and painted their first pictures on the white rock. He’d dreamwalked with a short, bearded shaman as the man trembled convulsively, seeking contact with the gods. He’d shared the soft dreams of the tribe's children - warm goat milk and tall trees and familiar songs. He’d seen them naming flowers and winds, and he’d felt - _different_. Something inside him had changed, and when he’d had to stand back and watch as those people were destroyed by an avalanche - only one child had mattered to Heaven, and that child had been long gone - he’d experienced pain for the very first time; not the sting of demon tails or the brutal, unrelenting martyrdom of Hell’s fires, but a profound, torturing _sadness_. 

(A remorse of lives unlived, and words unsaid, and smiles forever faded from this Earth. 

A sense, perhaps, of compassion for something that was completely separate from himself in a way his brothers never were.)

That child, of course, was Dean and Sam’s - well. English never had a word for it, and for good reason, but still - Cas remembers that boy, a skinny child who’d wandered off his camp and gotten lost. He remembers him nearly freezing to death, remembers stretching his own wings around him so the falling snow wouldn’t touch him. He remembers the old woman finding him. He remembers her smiling at the child, speaking the slow words of a different dialect, leading him to safety; and he remembers watching, that thing inside him that wasn’t quite a heart almost shrinking in regret as the boy’s tribe disappeared forever from human memory, nameless and unremembered.

But for all those times Cas has wondered at dreams and walked inside a drowsing human mind, he rarely sleeps, and never had dreams of his own - until now.

There is darkness, at first, and that is strange in its own right, because Cas’ world is never fully dark. Night means nothing to a seraph, and even in Hell, Cas had moved down the tunnels as easily as in full light, sidestepping obstacles, picking out enemies and lost souls by the faint sound and taste and colors of their true selves.

(He’d come closest to complete lack of visibility in the great hall that had been just in front of Dean’s cell - Cas knows Dean still has nightmares about that place, and he remembers it well, himself - how he’d very nearly been killed by the hordes of demons defending the place - how he’d looked up, exhausted and bleeding, his Grace mangled almost beyond recognition, to see yet another demon coming towards him - a demon clutching Cas’ own blade, lost in the heat of the battle, in his right hand. Cas had remained completely still, two dozen plans of attack converging and twisting in his mind, his hands seeking, almost blindly, any kind of weapon - a _shedim_ sword would make him burn and blister, but that didn’t matter - he could worry about it later -

And then, then the demon had stopped, just far enough as to be out of reach, and he’d flipped the blade in his hand, offering it to Cas handle first.

 _Come on, little birdie_ , he’d said, sounding terse despite the attempt at humor. _Get him out, right now, or we’ll all die._

Cas had pushed himself up, truly _looked_ at the demon - at the abomination behind the mask of the ordinary middle-aged man standing in front of him, the trousers of his suit already drenched with blood and guts - and, to his surprise, he’d seen the faintest trace of - empathy.

He hadn’t spoken a word to the demon, had been set on killing him, truth be told, until the creature had pressed something else in his palm - a necklace - a small bronze idol dangling from a piece of leather.

 _What is this?_ he’d asked, his voice echoing in the wide chamber.

 _Give it back to Dean_ , the demon had said, and that had been no explanation at all.

_My orders are to recover his soul, not to smuggle worthless trinkets in and out of this cursed place._

The demon had looked up at the ceiling in exasperation, then at the vast, dark hall around them, crowded with mutilated bodies.

 _Humans_ like _their trinkets_ , he’d said, slowly, as if to a child. _And Dean will love this one - trust me on that._

Cas had said nothing further; he’d taken the necklace and walked on, towards the closed door at the end of the room. There were sounds coming from there - angry, distressed colors, like beams of sunlight trying to get through thick storm clouds.

 _Name’s Crowley_ , the demon had said from behind him, but Cas had not looked back.

 _If we meet again, I will spare you - once_ , he’d replied. _Those are the rules._

 _Fair enough_ , Crowley had said; and Cas had felt him walk away and disappear.)

Cas walks in the darkness now, moving it around with his hands as if it’s a solid thing, stubborn branches or muddy water he can simply remove from his path. Everything is silent around him. He searches for his brothers’ voices, finds nothing. He wonders, briefly, if this is what the Empty looks like - if he’s finally pierced the secrets of Death, walked on to the other side; but, before he can dwell on the thought, a door appears in front of him, standing there in solitude like a charred tree after a storm. Cas tries walking around it, but there’s nothing behind it. More darkness, and more silence. Astonished, he comes back in front of it, and that’s when he notices it - in fact, details seem to be appearing in line with his thoughts, as if he himself were creating them - this is not just any door, but the door of Dean’s room, back at the Bunker. Cas reaches out, his fingers tracing the number eleven on the wood, before giving it a slight push.

The door opens, and there is Dean.

Cas almost runs over the threshold before he remembers - this means _nothing_. It’s not reality - it’s a vision, nothing more. A fantasy born of poison and exhaustion. If he focuses, he can hear and feel things even now - the irregular, comforting chortling of a fire, the rough texture of jeans under his cheek. A warm hand on his shoulder, its weight that of sleep and mindless oblivion.

But Dean -

It looks so _real_.

Dean is wearing his customary sleeping attire, but he is not sleeping. He’s staring up at the ceiling, listening to his music of lost love and mountains so loudly Cas can hear it through the headphones. As Cas watches, Dean closes his hands over his chest, moves his right thumb over his left, as if soothing an ache.

Even though it’s not real, Cas can’t help but reach for him - as he walks to the bed and sits down, he wonders where Sam is - a stupid, useless question, because this is a dream, nothing more - but Cas knows dreams can be quiet rivers and sunsets, and he almost resents being stuck here, in the sadness of this room, when he could - 

(- when they could -)

Dean brings his hands up to his face, presses the back of his knuckles against his eyes.

“I am looking for you,” Cas says, without even thinking about it, because Dean is about to cry and Cas can’t bear it. “I will find you again.”

Dean takes a long, shuddering breath.

“I promised I wouldn’t leave you.”

Cas doesn’t know if Dean remembers that. Probably not, all things considered. The person staring back at him as he’d said those words had been - well - barely even a person.

“I told you I’d stay and watch the dawn of eternity with you, whatever you may turn into, whatever you may become. And that is not a promise I will break, Dean. I _will_ come back to you.”

Dean is crying now, a quiet, unwilling, private thing of bad memories and lost hope, and Cas can’t take it - when Dean stretches his arm out, reaching for his music device so he can turn the volume even louder, Cas turns around slightly, puts his hand on Dean’s chest, right over his heart. Dean’s left hand was closed into a fist, but as Cas moves his thumb, only just, in a quiet gesture of comfort, Dean’s hand opens, his fingers splayed, almost touching Cas’.

It’s unfair, Cas thinks, how _real_ this feels - Dean’s skin, warm under the cotton, the irregular movement of his chest under Cas’ hand as he breathes in and out - shallow, drowning breaths - how the _room_ feels, even - that barely there smell of aftershave and cleaning products and - man, somehow, that faint musk that’s uniquely _Dean_ , and also - Cas doesn’t want to look at the weapons, those blades and guns and axes Dean keeps over the bed, but he knows they’re there - they - resonate against him, in a way, like everything else in the room does, because this is Dean’s room and Cas knows it by heart, every detail of it and what it means to Dean. He wishes there was more color in here, that Dean had hung up those posters he’d once purchased instead of hiding them on top of the dresser, wishes Dean would feel safe enough to get those weapons off the wall, wishes -

“Fuck,” Dean says, and before Cas can muster the courage to look at his face, the room tilts and fades and -

“Fuck,” Dean says, and when he takes his hand off Cas’ shoulder Cas is suddenly, immediately awake - the fresh scars on his back hurting and burning, eating away at his skin.

He anchors himself, closes his fingers in the old blanket, in Dean’s jeans - because apparently he’s fallen asleep on Dean’s legs, the rough fabric now scratching his cheek, and Dean -

“Sorry, I fell asleep - I’ve got use this again, hang on -”

Before Cas can even think of moving, he feels Dean’s fingers on his back, spreading a cold salve against the newly healed burns, and closes his eyes in relief.

“I think I was dreaming,” he says, quietly, and Dean makes a low sound of interest above him.

“Didn’t know you guys could dream.”

“We can’t.”

A moment of silence, and then -

“Does that have to do with - with this?” Dean asks, a bit diffidently, as if he doesn’t have the right to ask such a question; and his fingers pass right over the edge of Cas’ right shoulder blade.

Cas closes his eyes, relaxes against Dean’s touch, his mind falling back in the blurred reality of his dream. There had been a map at the foot on Dean’s bed, he thinks, a battered thing covered in coffee stains. Are he and Sam planning a journey? Have they discovered where Jack is?

The thought is far from comforting, and Cas needs to remind himself that it was just a dream, nothing more; that in his world, Dean is with Sam, and he’s fine; that he’s survived far worse than this without breaking apart.

(That he wouldn’t want Cas coming into his room, anyway. Not like that, not -)

“I Fell,” Cas explains, and he finds, as he tries to get the words out, that he’s exhausted; on the verge of sleep. “We all did.”

Dean’s fingers tighten on his shoulder.

“How can you _see_ me?” Cas adds, before Dean can say anything back; but the very next moment, he falls asleep again, and this time, he doesn’t dream.

# …

Cas feels the sunlight before he can see it - the gentle, curious warmth of it creeping through the cabin’s windows, caked with spider webs and dead leaves. He listens to the song of it for a moment - a melody that’s the same every morning, and yet always novel, somehow - a melody humans can’t hear, and the thought is strangely painful. 

(Cas has seen them watching dawns and sunsets for thousands of years - they cock their heads, only just, as though they’re trying to listen; but, of course, this is music they wasn’t thought for them.)

The door of the cabin opens, then closes, and that’s when Cas realizes that he has no idea of where Dean is - and that if this is an enemy coming for them, there’s nothing he can do about it: his wounds seem to have healed, but he’s still feeling - as he had in the clearing, Cas fears for a single, terrifying moment that he’s become human, before realizing he’s simply weak, his Grace quiet and dull and completely useless in a fight, which is dangerous, exasperating, _frustrating_ beyond belief; because as unpleasant as the sensation is, _this_ is what Cas fears and resents when he’s not well - that he can’t protect himself or others - it’s not so much about the physical discomfort, the ache and pain of it, but about knowing that he can’t keep Dean and Sam safe, and Dean simply doesn’t get it, he never -

 _Worst case of man flu I’ve ever seen_ , Dean had said that one time, his voice deliberately light, as he passed his hands on Cas’ chest and tried to figure out what was wrong.

_Dean, shut up. Cas, are you alright?_

Cas had looked up at Sam, then at Dean. The last time he’d seen Dean, he’d almost beaten him to death, and yet here he was - on his knees on the asphalt, deliberately avoiding his eyes, his jaw tightly clenched, his mouth a hard line of - of _worry_. He’d been _worried_ about Cas, after everything, and Cas - Cas had thought about that white room, about the thousand corpses staring up blindly at the bright light.

 _I will_ not _hurt Dean._

 _You_ will. _You_ are.

Cas is no stranger to this - struggling to sit up, gritting his teeth to stay conscious - but the idea he might have put this other Dean in danger -

“ _Balls_ ,” the man behind him says, in a kind of shocked anger Cas recognizes at once. 

He moves around Cas, pushing the bloody shears with his foot so they’ll be out of Cas’ reach; and Cas can’t see his soul quite as clearly as he can see Dean’s, but he still hears the whirring of Bobby Singer’s mind as it tries to put it all together - the weapons scattered all over the floor, the fire quietly burning down to ashes, the tattered remains of Cas’ clothes - and Cas himself, half naked, his back no doubt a landscape of angry scars.

“Bobby,” Cas says, almost coughing the word up, because it’s everything, isn’t it - it’s this man, safe and well, but it’s also worry for Dean, for every single version of Dean that’s out there on his own, and it’s the dull pain from his healing scars, and the loud silence of his crippled Grace. “It’s good to see you.”

Bobby stops pacing. Cas, still half-kneeling on the floor, hears him cock a gun, looks up at him.

“Where is Dean?” Bobby snaps, but then the door opens again, and this time it’s Dean - Cas feels it at once - the golden warmth of Dean’s soul, pouring in, filling the cabin -

“Whoa - Bobby, what the _fuck_?”

“Dean?”

“Yeah, _Dean_. What are you doing here?” Dean comes closer - kneels down next to Cas, presses his hand on Cas’ back, his fingers light on the scars. “You alright there?”

As Cas is about to answer, he’s suddenly engulfed by the weight of Bobby’s mistrust, knows an explanation is owed here, because this man - Cas doesn’t know what happened in this world, but he can feel the way Dean’s soul is reacting to Bobby - the affection there, the bright, rosy-colored love. He grips Dean’s shoulder, leans on him as he tries to clear his thoughts.

“This is not what it looks like,” he says, after a few seconds, and Dean huffs in exasperation.

“Man - you never say that.”

“What? Why not?” 

“Because if you say _it’s not what it looks like_ , it’s like saying that it _is_ what it looks like, dumbass,” Dean says, and Cas sees him look around, no doubt only just noticing the mess around them - the scraps of fabric, the bloody tools - sees something change on Dean’s face as Dean tries to see the thing from Bobby’s point of view.

There is amusement there, and also a hint of worry (self-hatred).

“What _does_ it look like?” Cas asks, and he doesn’t know if it’s genuine curiosity or not. He was never good at humor and double-entendre, not how Balthazar was, but Dean does occasionally find him funny, so Cas is trying to get better at it.

Dean looks at him, then away; tries not to smile, then gets serious again.

“Dunno, but whatever it is, it’s not good, that's for sure.”

The old blanket they’re kneeling on is stained with blood - Cas’ blood - Dean’s soul darkens for a split second, becomes a thing of smoke and ashes, impossible to breathe around, as he remembers how he’d felt to close his hand on the enchanted shears - the memory is so strong, Cas is sucked inside it, almost becomes Dean for a moment - those are now his own fingers on the handles, his own heart singing at the weight and power of the thing, a dream of blood clouding his mind and vision - 

And then, as soon as it’s started, it all goes away. Dean breathes in, moves his other hand towards Cas’ chest, as though to steady him, and his soul turns light again - a pale, pastel thing, but it will have to be enough.

“Dean - you didn’t hurt me,” Cas says quietly. “You know that, right?”

Dean doesn’t look at him, but something softens on his face.

“Yeah, uhm - about that - how _are_ you, Cas? You know - really? Did it - work?”

Cas sits up straighter, puts his hands on his thighs.

“I’ll be okay. I’m just tired.” 

Dean hums - a sound of distracted relief. There is something different about him this morning; he seems - more comfortable with the situation, with Cas himself, and Cas knows he should wonder about that, but right now all he can do is try to stay awake.

He hadn’t realized that being so utterly separated from Heaven would mean such a longer recovery time, but, of course, it makes sense. An angel’s Grace is never fully his own - there is a bond there, a connection to his brothers and sisters, and when that is fully gone -

“Good,” Dean says, and he’s about to stand up when Cas grabs his arm.

“I was worried about you.”

“What? Why?”

“I woke up and you were gone,” Cas says, and Dean rolls his eyes to hide the half smile.

“Dude, that sounds - never mind. I needed to make a phone call, okay? Reception’s not good in here.” 

“Well, I was still worried about you,” Cas insists, and he knows he had no reason and no right to, but he still can’t stop himself - this may be a different Dean, but his Dean has the peculiar skill to put himself in mortal danger every five minutes, and Cas doubts this man is any different. Someone _should_ worry about him.

“Seriously, I’m _fine_.”

“Good.”

“So everyone’s fine. _Whoopie_. Would have been good to know that before I drove all the way up here,” someone suddenly snaps, in a bad-tempered growl, and Cas, as if crashing back to reality, realizes Bobby is still there, standing right in front of him - that he’s looking at them both in bewilderment, that he still has his gun pointed at him, though with a lot less certainty than before.

Dean laughs.

“Should have waited for my call, then,” he shrugs, guiding Cas to his feet. “Bobby, this is Castiel. Cas, this is -”

“He knows me,” Bobby says, curtly. “So, you an angel?”

Cas frowns. He’s standing up now, but he’s still leaning heavily on Dean, and thinks he may fall down if Dean stepped to one side.

“How did you know?” he asks, frowning.

“Stupid-ass name like that? You gotta ask?”

“Well, _your_ name is supposed to celebrate brightness, but I have to say, it doesn’t always -” starts Cas, in irritation.

“Cas, shut up. Bobby, put that gun away.”

Bobby lowers the gun, but doesn’t holster it.

“Dean,” he says, his eyes moving from Cas to the stains of blood in the room and back again, “I don’t know where you found him, but an angel locked out of the Gates is _bad_ news. They warned us about -”

“Technically, I’m not locked out,” Cas points out, “yet.”

“It’s not - he comes from a different dimension.”

“Oh, that’s alright then.”

Cas loses track of the conversation for a moment as something - pushes against his Grace - a slow, tentative noise, something Cas recognizes as a way to initiate communication - which is impossible, surely, because if the Gates are closed - Cas unfocuses his eyes, tries to follow the push back to its source, as he normally would, finds he’s incapable to.

Maybe he’s too weak.

Or maybe he’s seeing things.

He can’t remember the last time his powers were so diminished; it’s possible that -

“You mean, that’s what he says,” Bobby snaps, and Cas blinks, comes back in the small room in time to feel Dean’s annoyance against his own skin.

“What about it?”

“Parallel universes - we never came across anything like that. How do we know he’s telling the truth?”

Dean opens his mouth, closes it again. His soul tinges with pink for a second, but before Cas can work out what it means, the color’s faded. 

“I _know_ he’s telling the truth,” Dean says, steadying Cas before letting go and moving away from him. “I just _do_ , okay?”

“Oh, you just _do_? Good - I guess that's settled.”

“Bobby, I - let it go, okay?”

Cas stands there and watches. Bobby’s put his weapon away, but he seems to be growing angrier - Cas can also see the fear flashing around his body like a faulty light bulb - that same fear that had been in Dean’s eyes the previous day.

Fear of _him_.

“Listen, _Elsa_ , maybe you’re not thinking clearly after your frat party,” Bobby growls, gesturing to the mess in front of the fireplace, “but you can’t 'just know' things. It’s stupid and it’s fucking dangerous and you’ve got _people_ to think about now, remember?”

“I _know_ that, thanks.” Cas can’t see Dean now, but he knows he’s kneeling by the trapdoor, prying it open with his hunting knife. “You think I don’t know that?” 

For a second, it looks like the tension in the room is going to overflow and turn into a fight, but then - then Bobby shakes his head, and Dean stands up, comes back towards them, his anger gone and forgotten.

“Did Bella sleep okay?” he asks, passing a hand on the back of his neck. “Today was show and tell - tell me you didn’t forget about -”

“Nah, I didn’t forget. She’s got the damn carburetor, though how she expects the other kids to find that interesting -”

“Who’s Bella?” Cas asks, without thinking, and Dean smiles.

“My daughter. Bella's really short for -”

“You’re _telling_ him about her?”

“Yeah, I’m telling him. Bobby - he’s _fine_.”

Bobby doesn't seem convinced - at all. He passes his hand on the butt of his gun, seems to chew on his next words for a few seconds, his jaw clenching and unclenching under the graying beard. 

“Okay. Okay. Have it your way. She's your kid, and -"

"Bobby -"

"We trusted your gut before, so -

"This is not about -"

"- and why would you start listening to me now, uh? You've gone years without -"

"That's not -"

"So - here.”

As Cas watched, Bobby closes the distance between him and Dean, gets a piece of folded paper out of his own pocket, forces it in Dean's hand.

"She made it last night. For you."

Very gently, Dean takes the paper and opens it. Cas was almost expecting it, but he's still unprepared by the sudden flashing of Dean's soul - a loud, bright explosion of happy colors and pride and love. 

“Yeah, she’s not getting a damn _dog_ ," is all that Dean says, but even Bobby can hear how fake his grumpiness it - Cas sees him shakes his head. "And what’s this? A turtle?”

"It's friends having lunch together," Bobby says, with as much dignity as he can muster, and Dean steps around him, gives the drawing to Cas, and Cas - he _does_ make an effort to look at it with his human eyes - there is the dog, and a turtle, and also something that's probably a frog, all of them carrying baskets of food on their backs - but the bright, primary colors of the markers almost disappear into the _other_ message this paper's carrying - his Grace shimmering, Cas suddenly _sees_ the child, a little girl with pigtails and a chunky necklace, can _feel_ the effort she's putting in her drawing - how her concentration makes everything else fade around her, including a glass of milk she's about to knock over with her right elbow and Bobby's voice, almost distorted in the distance, explaining something about dogs - and Cas blinks at the warm glow of the child's soul, because - 

“Hey - where are you going?”

“Home,” Bobby says, walking past Cas, his eyes on the ground as he carefully avoids the mess on the floor.

“Yeah, we’re coming." Dean is back at the trap door, already on the second step down. "Just - help him out, okay? I need to clean up in here.”

There is a moment of silent communication between them, and then Bobby sighs.

“If you're sure,” he says, and then turns, gestures for Cas to follow him.

“Go on. I’ll catch up with you,” Dean adds, disappearing from Cas' vision; and Cas, weak and exhausted and distracted by what he's seen in the drawing, has no other choice but to follow Bobby outside, all the way through the clearing and to an old Chevrolet that's parked next to a battered jeep.

"So, you -" Bobby starts, but Cas reaches out, grabs his arm.

“Does Dean know the child’s not his?” he asks, urgently. 

Bobby stares at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter and I apologize for the cliffhanger. :)
> 
> Real life is sort of crazy right now, so it's likely that the next chapter will be up on Monday or Tuesday instead of Sunday. I usually give the exact date, along with the occasional sneak peek, on [my tumblr](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/) (stuff like this is tagged 'my writing' or 'blues run the game') - feel free to drop by whenever you want!
> 
> (If you're curious, Bella's drawing is also on there!)


	10. Killing a God is Always Self-Defense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry for the delay, the last few weeks have been very busy IRL - I hope what follows will be worth the wait.
> 
> (One of my Dean headcanons made its way in there somehow - I sort of imagine that when Dean was six, he got 'married' to a girl of the same age who was staying at the same motel, and of course John found out - with heartbreaking consequences. You don't really need to know more than that in order to enjoy this story, but if you're curious, I delved more into Dean's childhood in my 2016 DCBB fic, [_The Way Out_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8315497/chapters/19042117).)

There is nothing out of the ordinary in the day unfolding around them, but Dean can’t shake a feeling of last things and missed opportunities. Because it’s not only about - because so they lost Cas, right, and Dean wants to think that’s a _just for now_ thing, but he can’t know for sure and that’s hurting him and burning him from the inside out. And also, fuck, Dean’s been trying not to think about Mom at all, and he doesn’t know if she even _remembers_ what he said to her when she was under, and he doesn’t know if it would make a difference, anyway, and why does it even _matter_? The truth is, she’s gone, just like Cas, and in a way it’s the same damn thing - it’s like she and Cas were _meant_ to disappear together, okay, in some bullshit destiny way, because they were - they were the only ones - the only two people who could give him and Sam an out from their own damn heads - because they’d _belonged_ here, with them, in a way no one else had since Dad died, and Dean - on the day he’d finally realized that he was sick and tired and too fucking old for this life, he’d been staring at Sam and Cas - they’d been in some diner, and Cas had been explaining to Sam something to do with physics - he’d grabbed a straw for a reason Dean hadn’t understood, like, at all, and he’d been going on and on in his serious, quiet voice about time bending and dimensions and why some famous dude in England was right about the universe, and Sam - Dean had realized that it’d been a long time since he’d seen Sam so relaxed and happy and focused - focused in a good way, that was, focused in an _I wish I’d taken this shit as my major_ way and not in an _I’d better work out what this thing is before it kills us_ way, and -

Fuck, the truth is - Dean’s failed Sam so _bad_ , he can no longer imagine a life that’s not this - driving down some road in a car full of guns - but something about Cas being there - hell, something about Mom coming back - _man_ , all of a sudden those other ideas, those other things they could all do with their lives had seemed - possible. 

_Good_ , even.

But now -

“Want me to drive?” Sam offers, and Dean jolts back from his thoughts, glares at him.

“What do you think this is? Opposite day?”

Sam huffs.

“Okay, forget it.”

“Nah, out with it. I know you won’t be happy until -”

“I know you’re not sleeping well, okay?”

Dean looks back at the road, presses down on the gas.

“And you are?”

“I -”

Sam’s sentence never even starts, and Dean feels his own sudden anger fray and fade away, because he’s been thinking about it, on and off, for a week now - how this must be for Sam - Lucifer’s kid knowing his name, fucking _calling_ him from across three state lines - Dean’s been looking at Sam over the past few days - he’s seen his brother stare down at his laptop, his eyes glassy and unfocused, and he’s seen Sam pick at his food the same way he used to do as a kid - pushing and prodding at stuff with his fork until it looked half-eaten so that Dean wouldn’t notice he wasn’t, in fact, eating at all. And, whatever - Sam’s right - Dean hasn’t been sleeping that well, and if he’s chosen to walk around the Bunker at night, and maybe to stop in front of Sam’s door and listen - if he’s heard his brother whimper in fear and scream in his nightmares - yeah, nobody needs to know. 

Because Dean can’t talk to Sam about any of that, okay? Mr Touchy-Feely, with his _You can tell me anything, Dean_ bullshit, never shares with the class, and there’s no good way to bring this shit up, anyway - it’s not like American Greetings sells cards that say _I know Lucifer chose you and you used to have demonic powers but hey, you’re a good guy_.

Or not yet, anyway.

Hell, with the way everything’s going, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if they started selling shit like that - an entire shelf of _I’m sorry your grandpa drowned in that river of blood_ and _Congratulations! Your baby is fully human!_ and _Well done on your new job as locust exterminator!_ because Sam can say whatever the fuck he wants - Dean won’t believe Jack is good news just because the world hasn’t exploded yet. 

(Give it time.)

“I need some coffee,” Dean says, because this is a conversation they’re not having so they might as well stop trying; and Sam glances at him, gives up.

“There’s a Biggerson’s coming up,” he agrees, mildly, and that’s it.

 _Fuck_ \- they’ve been on the case for a damn _week_ , and they got nothing. Those church billboards Jack messed with - they’re all in Montana, so that’s where they’re going - Dean thinks they crossed the border maybe twenty miles ago - and in a way, that’s good - it means that thing isn’t jumping all over the country - that it slithered East give or take three hundred miles and then what? Bought himself a nice little ranch and started to turn cows and horses inside out?

Dean slows down, steers into the Biggerson’s parking lot. Sam’s playing with his tablet again, but Dean can’t wait to stretch his legs, and as soon as the engine’s off, he opens the door, walks out, and breathes in the fresh morning air.

Truth be told, they weren’t supposed to leave in the middle of the night, but, yeah - Sam had burst into his room at around three in the morning, a duffel bag on his shoulder, and Dean had - he’d been just standing there, staring at the new piece of decoration in his room - a framed _Star Wars_ poster, a thing he’d bought on a whim years ago because hell, he’d always wanted one as a kid, and -

 _So that’s what was making that noise_ , Sam had said, coming to stand beside him and looking at the poster, and Dean had shrugged.

_Yeah - sorry. I had to use an axe, took me a minute._

He’d glanced up at Sam, but, whatever - that was something else they’d never discussed - how Dean had gone around the Bunker one day, collected all the hammers he could find, his head full of grief and fury and self-hatred. Sam had been having with breakfast when Dean had come in with a bunch of hammers, still feeling like something a cat had thrown up, his skin a bit blotched after taking a shower in scorching hot water. 

(Dean remembers standing on the threshold for a second - he remembers Cas showing up as well, probably alerted by - hell, who even knows - Cas can hear weird stuff, okay - how both he and Sam had pretended not to look at him as he'd dumped all six hammers in the trash and stormed off again.)

“We’re not far from Billings,” Sam says from behind him, and Dean turns around. “Want to stop there?”

Dean shakes his head.

“If that thing was in some big city, I think we’d know by now.”

“Jack.”

“Whatever.”

“That’s his name, Dean. It’s what Kelly wanted.”

“Yeah - you mean before or after she was ripped apart?”

Sam clenches his jaw, puts his tablet in his bag.

“She wasn’t,” he starts, and then he looks up, sees the expression on Dean’s face, drops it. “So, coffee?”

“And waffles,” Dean says, pointedly, and it comes out like a threat, because what he means is, _You’re gonna eat your damn breakfast today or I will fucking make you_.

Still - the whole thing, Dean thinks, as they walk across the deserted parking lot, as they get inside the place and sit down, as Sam frowns down at his waffles and then starts fiddling with his phone again - the whole thing is like one of those dreams, or nightmares - it’s like seeing yourself move and talk and do things and knowing it’s a goddamn bad idea to go this way or that, to get inside that house, to jump off a fucking building, and yet not being able to stop events from rushing around you - it’s like being caught in the middle like a mindless, idiotic bug, and _fuck_ , this is what Dean always resented the most, both in nightmares and in real life: those moments when everything he is is telling him to stop, to go back, to get the fuck _out_ \- and he can’t, and he doesn’t. And it’s not a thought he puts into words, perhaps - it’s more like a weight, deep in his stomach, a black stench that stays with him the whole day, and then the day after, and the day after that - _So, what’s the plan?_ Sam had asked, his eyes blank (determined? terrified? Dean’s not even trying to guess anymore) as he stared at the prairie beyond the glass become hills and soft mountains. _We don’t have one_ , Dean had replied, trying to keep the _And it’s your own goddamn fault_ out of his voice. _Trust me, this thing’s gonna be hard to miss_.

And, well - it had started with the flowers - miles and miles of bright red flowers and waitresses in diners barely managing to contain their delight and "They’re pretty things, aren’t they? Not native to Montana, the radio said". And next, it’d been rumors about trees - trees growing two feet in one day, trees shooting up from the dusty floors of barns, scaring the hell out horses and ranchers alike, "‘Cause it’s not natural, ain’t it? The Devil’s work," as an old man had told them, glancing back nervously at the gigantic pine tree now looming over his house. Then there had been Black Creek, population 285, pregnant women 72 - all of them expecting twins. By the time they’d left, news vans had already begun to pile in, and Dean had looked up at the mirror, wondered what would happen to those kids, because, fuck, so you wake up in the morning morning and your wife’s six months pregnant, and how are you supposed - what the _fuck_ was Jack even _thinking_ about? And maybe in his book it was all one big gift, Dean had ranted to Sam as they drove deeper and deeper into the madness, flowers and trees and wild animals out of control and babies being born right, left and center, but _fuck_.

Sam had said very little. That whole week, he’d simply sat there and followed Dean around and listened to people as they described dogs suddenly birthing litters of fifteen puppies and chicken growing to the size of lambs and how it was all the government’s fault, anyway - goddamn fracking and weird shit leaking into the water and the Russians, who even knew what the Russians were up to, and what about those damn Chinese, uh? 

In fact, Sam had been so quiet Dean had tried not to even look at him, because Sam - it’d been like he was listening for something, and Dean had a right to be freaked out about that, okay?, because this was _Lucifer_ ’s kid, and he’d called Sam and he’d wanted Sam here, and how could they be sure -

“He’s _not_ evil, Dean,” Sam had said, as Dean slowed down and stopped the car and looked at the bear crossing the road and counted one, two, five cubs lolloping after it. “Nobody’s died, right?”

“Nobody’s happy, either,” Dean had replied, speeding up before something else - another fucking bear, or a thousand wild rabbits, or a goddamn T-Rex, could emerge from the woods.

“It’s just - life,” Sam had insisted, and this is why they’d kept going, and this is why they’re here now, Dean thinks, angry and scared and resentful as fuck; he looks up at the ruined mansion, then down at the open trunk again.

“Grenade launcher?” he asks, hopefully, but Sam just walks away - he avoids the house completely, walks towards the gardens behind it, and Dean - Dean tucks a silver blade in his belt and then follows, his mouth full of curses and his heart a black, heavy mass.

When he catches up with Sam, he finds his brother staring up at a gigantic greenhouse. The place used to belong to some artist, the guy at the gas station had said, batting away at a swarm of blue butterflies, but then he’d died and nobody knew exactly who owned it now; and as he stops next to Sam, Dean can’t help the feeling of wonder washing all over him like warm water, because Jesus _Christ_.

The greenhouse is at least forty feet tall, its glass windows blackened and cracked by time; and, like the main house, it’s completely overrun by green stuff and flowers, which would normally bug Dean, because he likes to look after stuff and keep it in top condition and he can’t stand weeds and rust and mold, but _this_ \- this is something fucking _else_. There are tall trees shading the greenhouse, curving over it as if protecting whatever’s inside (as if that thing needed protection), and vines running all over their trunks, stuff Dean’s never seen before, fat fuckers with big, shiny leaves and yellow flowers blinking down at them, moving noiselessly in the light breeze. There’s fruit trees too, stuff that shouldn’t grow so far North, Dean knows as much, and a cheerful line of reddish mushrooms leading straight towards the crumbling entrance of the greenhouse. Dean sees Sam look down at them and smile.

“Yeah, so this is the beginning of every horror movie I’ve ever seen,” he says, but Sam ignores him. “Hey, are you sure you want -”

Sam walks forward - he follows the path indicated by the mushrooms, disappears for a second behind a huge fir tree, and then he simply - pushes the door of the greenhouse open and walks in.

_Fuck._

Dean passes his right hand on the butt of his gun, on the grip of the knife; remembers all the times Sam’s ever fucked up - remembers how Sam had almost looked feverish during their latest fight, how he’d said, all stubborn and angry, _I have faith_. He thinks about Sam pulling at his pajama sleeve aged seven, muttering, _Are angels real?_ , and he thinks about Cas, who’d _believed_ in Jack, who’d _wanted_ them to work with Jack and help him create a better world, and okay, maybe this is not exactly what Cas had had in mind - a world of overgrown poison ivy and bear cubs taking over entire towns and thousands of bats blotting out the fucking Moon, but, whatever - if Dean doesn’t trust his brother, if he doesn’t trust Cas, then what the _fuck_ is he supposed to do? Trust _himself_? He’s spent his entire life trying to do his best, and he’s got fuck-all to show for it. Dean’s only real responsibility was to look after his brother, to keep Sam safe and happy, and on days like today, after Sam’s spent a straight week not saying a word and screaming himself hoarse during nightmare after nightmare, Dean just wants to drive Baby off a damn _cliff_ , because Sammy - so Dean’s managed to keep him alive, but Sam looks more and more like some demented Stockholm syndrome loner, and this thing with Lucifer’s kid - this thing with _Lucifer_ \- yeah, for nastier or for worse that’d been the longest relationship Sam’s had with anyone, and yay - because Sam’s not a lawyer and he’s not married and Eileen’s dead, now, and they’ve got no family left and barely any friends who made it out alive (“People in your general vicinity don't have much in the way of a lifespan, love”), and Dean - the _last_ thing he wants is to walk inside this greenhouse and watch his brother get butchered, because he remembers it, okay, he _knows_ what it’s like to fight one of these things when you’re outnumbered - he remembers Alastair holding him close and licking his cheek and Zachariah taking his lungs away and the smile on Gabriel’s face and _fuck_ , they’re gonna die today, but so what, uh? 

So fucking _what_? 

“Blaze of glory,” Dean mutters; and then he squares his shoulders, follows Sam into the greenhouse. 

The inside is darker than Dean expected. He catches a glimpse of Sam moving behind a green veil of leaves and, despite his misgivings, follows him, side-stepping an overflowing fountain full of lotus flowers and tiny orange frogs.

As he walks deeper and deeper into the place and tries to keep an eye on the back of Sam’s head (the stupid idiot’s actually walking with purpose now, all sure and determined and _Never tell me the odds_ ), Dean is reminded of Heaven - of that other greenhouse, of the angel x-raying him, of him saying, _I think He gets lonely_.

 _Right_.

Cas had been _furious_ about all of it, but Dean - he couldn’t even bring himself to care anymore. That period had been a blackout of bitterness and depression, and now he’s actually _met_ God, Dean can’t be bothered to hate him. He did, maybe - at first. But later, and after everything that happened next - whatever. Because so it’s all pointless and all on him and the only thing that makes sense is to try and help people before he gets a bullet in his brain, and whatever - that’s a lesson he’d already learned at age six, when Dad had pulled him out of that church and forced Jenny to go back to her deadbeat mother and shouted stuff about monsters and Mom and Sammy, and _He_ needs _you, Dean, stop being so damn selfish._

So this doesn’t mean anything, really. It’s just a greenhouse, and Jack - Dean almost walks into Sam, reaches an arm out to steady himself, and then follows Sam’s gaze up a series of old-fashioned metal shelves half-hidden by the leaves of the maple tree growing in front of it.

_Goddammit._

There’s a boy up there - a young man sitting cross-legged on the highest shelf, about thirteen feet above them, and he’s looking down at them with his wide golden eyes. 

His eyes: that’s actually how Dean knows at once this thing’s not human - because they’re slightly too big and too far apart and also, yeah, they’re fucking _yellow_ and shimmer in the half light like a cat’s. As for the rest of him - as far as Dean can see, he’s just an ordinary guy - butt naked, that is, but _normal_ \- no wings, no tail, no neon horns or weirdass teeth. 

At least, Dean thinks so.

Still, this guy doesn’t look right for someone who was born, like, last week, because he’s about twenty and _fuck_ angels and _fuck_ Lucifer and _Jesus_ , why does this always happen to him? If only they could kill this fucker right now, and be done with it - God, if fucking Jack Kline could just drop _dead_ and -

“Just fucking _die_! Just fucking _die_!” the thing suddenly screams, looking straight at him, and both he and Sam jump at the sound, because fuck - not only is it unexpected and plain weird, but that’s _Dean_ ’s voice, Dean’s been hearing it long enough to know what it fucking sounds like, and it’s all wrong in Jack’s mouth and what the fuck even -

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Dean yells back, before he can think better of it, and the answer is another loud, almost deafening scream.

“Shut the _fuck_ up!”

“Yeah, so your plan is going _great_ ,” Dean says, turning to Sam, and he’s suddenly furious, because Jack - Jack was supposed to bring Cas back or fucking kill them both and just end it, but if he turns out to be this - an idiotic, mindless, demonic parrot who doesn’t know squat about them and doesn’t give a damn -

“PIE,” Jack suddenly shouts, in something of a triumphant tone, and Dean has to force himself not to reach for his gun and just shoot him.

“Inside voice, you idiot!” he barks, and Jack leans forward slightly, stares at him with those unsettling golden eyes, serious and focused, for a full five minutes - until Dean feels naked and about two seconds away from death.

“Sammy,” Jack says, almost too quietly to be heard, “It’s on _me_ , okay? Everything’s on _me_ , awesome, Sammy Sammy SAM! Not my Baby, you stay the _fuck_ back, this is not pie, bitch, I hate witches, Cas, come on -”

“Stop that -”

“Cas, I _need_ you,” Jack insists, and Dean turns beet red, realizes he’s never told Sam what happened in that damn crypt -

“Shut the _fuck_ up!”

“My father was an obsessed _bastard_!”

“You fucking -” This time, Dean reaches for his gun, draws it on instinct, has to duck as something that was probably a goddamn eagle flies low over his head, disappears towards the other end of the greenhouse.

“Dean, maybe we should,” Sam starts, but before he can add anything to that, any brilliant fucking idea on how to deal with what’s clearly one unhinged motherfucker, Jack lowers his voice and whispers, “I wanted to _die_ ,” and all color drains from Sam’s face.

“Uhm, that was not,” Dean says, because Sam’s looking at him now, but the thing is, he can’t remember when he said that and there’s simply no way to explain it away.

“He didn’t force me to do anything,” Jack says next, completely oblivious to Dean’s discomfort and Sam’s worry, and it’s suddenly, horrifyingly clear - this is that conversation Dean had with Jody, last fucking week, that thing he only remembers in bits and pieces, and God even knows -

“Fuck, I said _shut it_ -”

“Cas! Cas! CAS!” Jack shouts in Dean’s voice, his hands coming down to grip the edge of the metal shelf; and then: “You fucking touch my brother I’ll rip out your spine and beat you with it, PIE AND CAKE ARE NOT THE SAME THING, SAMMY -”

“Okay, that’s it, I’m _gutting_ him -”

“Dean -”

“So he got a bit handsy, but can you blame him?” 

Dean’s faced enough monsters pretending to be him to know the delivery is absolutely perfect, the vowels just so, the same hint of amusement and sass Dean always goes for when he’s outgunned, and hearing those words in his own voice makes Dean 's heart literally fucking _stop_. 

_Fuck_ \- did he tell Jody he and Crowley had sex? 

(Did he tell her he _liked_ it?)

With a roar or rage, he finally raises his gun out and shoots - he was aiming for the heart, but Sam pushed his arm aside at the last moment - they both watch as Jack frowns down at the bullet hole in his stomach (there is no blood), and fuck, there it is - the skin knitting together, the wound disappearing as if it’d never been there in the first place.

Dean hadn’t expected anything different, but it’s still a blow of sorts.

He hopes it hurt, at the very least, but then it doesn’t seem likely.

Fuck, the world is one unfair and messed-up place.

“Okay, that’s it,” Sam says, taking Dean’s gun from his unresponsive hand. “Dean, for fuck’s sake. And Jack - please, don’t do that. We only want to talk to you, okay?”

“He started it,” Dean mutters, feeling about four and unable to help it. He glances at Sam, then at Jack, and he waits, with a sense of slowly building vindication, for Jack to start copying Sam - for Jack to spill Sam’s memories and Sam’s thoughts and Sam’s -

But there’s only silence.

“Can we talk?” Sam asks again, gesturing; and when he realizes he’s still holding the gun, he passes it back to Dean with a huff of exasperation, as if this is really Dean’s fault, and what the _hell_?

“Why isn’t he doing it to _you_?” Dean complains, taking it; but just then, Jack moves - he leans forward, closing his hands on the shelf to keep himself balanced, and he pushes his body into the air like a snake, his eyes fixed on Sam.

“Ba ba,” he says, happily, in a new, high-pitched voice, and Dean wants to shoot him again. “Ba ba baaaaa.”

“This is a waste of time.”

“You got a better idea?”

Dean moves out of the way as about one million butterflies emerge from behind a pillar and fly straight into his face.

“We could pray,” he says, waving one arm about in a useless attempt to get them out of the way. “We could call down an angel.”

“The angels want to kill him, though.” Sam is looking at Jack in the same focused, serious way Jack’s looking at him. 

It’s like Dean’s not even there, really.

“Yeah, so maybe we let them,” Dean mumbles, spitting a single blue wing out of his mouth and rolling his eyes. 

“I don’t think that’s -”

“Deedee. Deedee, Deedee, _Deedee_ ,” Jack says, and Dean freezes, because fuck, he knows _exactly_ whose voice is that.

He takes a step forward, then remembers that putting himself between Jack and Sam would achieve nothing at all, stops.

“What?”

“That’s you. That’s what you used to call me.”

Dean doesn’t really remember it, but he knows it was summer, and maybe he was in the backseat of the Impala playing with soldiers or Legos when Sam had looked up at him from his crummy baby car seat and had laughed at him. _Deedee_ , he’d said, and that had been his first real word, and fuck, hearing it again is the _last_ thing Dean needs right now, because he’s already falling apart at the seams here - because look at this mess with Mom and Cas, and apparently now the whole world knows he likes it up the ass, and god _dammit_ , and if this thing thinks he’s gonna make him cry like a little bitch by throwing old-ass memories at them - fuck, Dean’s not about to -

“You never told me that,” Sam says, and he sounds almost as soft as Dean feels.

“It never came up,” Dean says, curtly. “Seriously - what’s _wrong_ with him? What the hell is he even _doing_?”

Sam looks at Dean a moment longer before shrugging, turning away.

“I think he’s - scanning us,” he says, slowly. “Getting to know us. Getting used to human language, maybe.”

Dean glances up at Jack, who’s still staring at Sam and blinking his golden eyes. 

“ _Jesus_. Whatever - just fast-forward to the good bits, okay, Gollum? I’m not standing in this damn place for two fucking years and wait for you to -”

“I want to hold you down,” Jack says, obediently, and this is Sam’s voice - adult Sam, that is. “I want to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

Dean bursts out laughing, and Sam actually moves forward, almost tripping over a vine and killing himself in his haste to get to Jack.

“Jack, please don’t do that,” he stammers, and Jack tilts his head to one side.

“Oh, God, _yes_ \- get down on your knees?” he asks, a bit tentatively, and Sam stops right under him, looks up.

“Those are private things,” Sam explains, slowly, and he’s trying to keep his voice steady, but his face’s still very, _very_ red. 

Dean grins.

“Oh, I don’t know about _private_ ,” he says. “Remember chapter sixteen of _Provenance_? The copy we found had that whole passage underlined.”

Sam glances back, distracted.

“What?”

“ _Sam leans forward and presses his lips to Sarah’s_ ,” Dean quotes, and he’s making it up, because those books - he’s not read them through very carefully, and he’s actually skipped all that stuff about Sam because - _yuck_ \- it’d been bad enough to read about himself. “ _As he presses his hot tongue inside her mouth, Sarah can feel the hard shape of his -_ ”

“Jesus Christ, Dean, grow _up_.”

“Shut up, I’m a poet.”

“You’re an idiot, is what you are.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk?” Jack asks, with a frown, and Dean laughs again. 

Hell, even Sam looks a bit less red now, but it may be a trick of the light. The afternoon is fading fast, and Dean finds himself thinking of their next step in a way he hasn’t over the last week; and it’s only when he tries to remember where the closest motel is, and wonders if they can talk Jack into sharing a room with them without filling it with birds or mushrooms that he realizes just how much he’d stopped doing all of those things - worrying about money and gas and the rest of his life, even; how he’d lowkey expected to die in here, and how he’d been okay with it.

It should be a bleak thing to suddenly become aware of, but somehow it’s not. Somewhere over the last year, Dean’s started to accept that some things, he just has no control over, and that - he’d always expected it’d be terrifying, but instead - fuck, it’s almost _good_. Not everything’s on him, and there’s stuff he can’t change, and that’s - that’s actually okay. Like, sure, he wishes they could go back in time and fix a couple of things - he wishes he’d been able to prevent Mom from walking out on them, and he wishes they’d never worked with the Brits at all, and he wishes - he wishes he’d made it clear to Cas that it doesn’t _matter_ to him if Cas wins or loses some imaginary game and evens a score no one’s been keeping for years, because who the hell _cares_ , and he wishes that feeling he had last week - a sudden certainty of warmth and love eating him up, swallowing him whole - the weight of an invisible hand on his chest - yeah, he wishes he’d had that with Cas, or more than that; but still, he’s got little control over - over everything, in the end, and that means none of this shit is actually his fault. Which - yeah.

(Firewall between light and darkness his _ass_.)

Like, right now Sam’s reaching up, offering his hand to Jack, and Dean thinks that’s a stupid-ass decision, because Jack may be a potty mouth parrot from Hell, but they both _know_ , they fucking _do_ , that when he touches people they go batshit insane - and yet Dean’s not about to stop Sam from doing whatever the fuck he wants, because Sam’s a grown man and too tall for his own damn good and if he wants to get himself brainwashed, that’s his God-given right as an American.

(Dean still _hates_ it, though; has to stuff his hands in his pockets so he won’t reach out and grab Sam's arm and drag him away.

Hell - baby steps.)

“Here - you can learn from me,” Sam says, and Dean almost bites through his lips as he waits for whatever’s gonna happen next.

_I have faith._

Jack tilts his head to one side, and then, very slowly, extends his own arm - stops - and finally touches Sam’s fingers with his own.

There is an intense flash of light - Sam’s eyes glow gold for a second, but the light surrounding him and Jack is way too bright to look at - and there’s a sound as well, something like - _like_ -

And then it’s over.

Dean lowers his hand from his eyes to see Jack’s standing in front of Sam now, and he’s looking - he’s wearing jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt and - did his eyes _shrink_? Because he’s like - his _face_ -

He looks _human_.

“I understand now. I see things,” Jack says, out of the blue, but he’s using a voice that’s neither Sam’s nor Dean’s, and Sam smiles down at him like any of this is normal. “How is you feeling, Sam?”

And, true, nobody got incinerated or blown apart or eaten, but Sam’s got no _right_ \- this is not fucking _normal_.

Not even close, and shut it.

“I’m fine,” Sam says, sounding anything but, and he looks like Cas did - relaxed and stupid and almost giddy with happiness.

“ _Are_ you?” Dean asks, and Jack turns towards him.

“Dean - I apologize myself if I distressed you. Earlier.”

He doesn’t look sorry, exactly, but then again, he doesn’t look anything, and Dean remembers how it took Cas ages to allow himself to feel any emotion.

(Remembers how those first emotions Cas had learned how to feel had usually resulted in Dean getting beaten up, and shivers, because this guy right here - he may look like a boy band drummer, but he’s the most powerful being in the entire universe, and Dean isn’t keen to find out just how strong he is.

So maybe he should just -)

“Don’t worry about it. Hell, I don’t know where you found that stuff. I don’t think that often about - about pie. ‘S not that important, you know.” Dean has the luxury of wondering for about two seconds if he’s managed to get away with it before noticing the expression on Sam’s face.

“Sure,” Sam says. “You don’t think about _pie_ at all.”

Dean glares at him, daring him to say anything at all. 

Sam opens his mouth, closes it.

“Pie be not an essential element of human nutrition,” Jack says, in the sudden silence, and he’s missing the point by a fucking mile and he’s also plain wrong. 

Dean rolls his eyes.

“That’s not - listen, you know that passage into that other dimension? We just need you to open it up again,” he says, trying to ignore Sam’s amused smirk. “Can you do it?”

Jack frowns at him, considers the question very, very carefully before turning towards Sam.

“Can you do it,” he repeats, in something that’s not quite a question, and it’s immediately, annoyingly clear that he’s not blue-screening again - that what he means is that he wants _Sam_ to do the fucking thing, and goddammit.

“So you got your powers back?” Dean asks, going for neutral and uninterested and landing on _We’ll talk about this when we get home, young man_ , and that finally wipes the smile off Sam's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to upload the next chapter on Tuesday or so, but please be patient, okay? And actually, about that - I wanted to thank you guys, because you always hear of writers getting harassed about updates, but in my whole time here, I only met incredibly nice and supporting people, and I know how _hard_ it is when you're on the other side of the screen - when you're waiting to know what happens next and all that - so, really, thank you for being plain AMAZING. I love you all. ❤


	11. Welcome Home

This other Bobby (a man whose beard is a bit neater, and completely grey; also a man whose soul shines bright with deep, quiet affection) stares at Cas for a second, then moves, turns back, glances at the cabin, as if wondering where Dean is and why the _hell_ he chose to put this on them all - a damn angel, of all things.

And at first, Cas says nothing. The clearing is peaceful - last night’s rain no more than a memory, a soft sound of birds and ants and trees chattering to one another, shimmering around them both like mist. Cas can hear Dean move inside the cabin, and tries to step back so he won’t intrude on his thoughts and feelings, because Dean - he’s tired and confused and slightly unhappy with himself, but there’s something else under all of that; something private Cas has no right to spy on. And so he forces himself to focus on other things, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes cast down, away from Bobby’s annoyed glares. He simply stands there and waits for an answer to his question, his mind and heart the eye of a storm he won’t allow to break; and he waits until he finally understands no answer is coming.

He looks up, then; wonders if the polite thing to do is pretend nothing happened and change the subject - this is what Sam does from time to time, pushing his hair back and offering him more beer as Dean stares at them both in disbelief; and the memory of Dean’s face, of what Dean looks like in those moments - intrigued and incredulous and _What the fuck, man?_ \- is suddenly so vivid in Cas’ mind that he finds that no - this is important: he needs to persevere.

“Please, I merely,” he starts, frowning at Bobby’s angry profile, “I apologize if I offended you. I’ve been told my people skill are not overly well-developed - I don’t want to mention something that’s supposed to be a secret, that is all.”

Another second of silence, and then -

“What if it was a secret to _me_ , dumbass?” Bobby growls; his right hand moves over the butt of his gun, then away.

Cas blinks. This is a possibility that never once occurred to him.

“Was it?” he asks carefully.

“No.” Bobby pauses, clearly looking for another reason to be annoyed. “But it could’ve been.”

They look at each other for a moment, and Cas finds he’s almost moved by how much older and happier Bobby looks. Like this version of Dean, this version of Bobby presumably doesn’t walk into battle on a daily basis; instead, he works with cars (Cas can smell them on him) and cooks and explains to a young child (not Dean’s) that dogs can’t see color.

“You’re Bobby,” Cas says in the end, and he’s met with the same hostile, fearful expression that had flickered on Bobby’s face the first time he’d realized Cas knew his name.

“So?”

“In my world, Bobby Singer knew everything.” Cas stops, hesitates. “I mostly think he knew Dean the best - better than John, and better than Sam, even.”

Bobby seems taken aback at that. Cas can’t see his soul very clearly, but there’s all kinds of sounds there - love and pride and a sort of growing panic, because in this world, angels are not supposed to walk with humans, and Cas remembers how, out of all of his friends, Bobby had been the only one to understand what Cas was, and what he could do, and what it meant that there was a Heaven and its Gates had opened.

(Then again - yes, Cas remembers that superstitious fear, that terrified awe, but he also remembers Bobby’s determined pragmatism, and how he’d come to care for Cas as he’d cared for Sam and Dean - cornering him in empty rooms and inviting him to open up and spill it already in harsh, grumpy words that did little to mask the worry and affection running underneath.)

Bobby stares at him a moment longer, trying to rein in a whole set of conflicting emotions before fishing his keys out of his pocket and glaring at him.

“Knew, eh?”

“Sorry.”

Cas is not sure about the proper etiquette here - what Bobby would appreciate. How do you show your sympathy at the fact that, in a different dimension, another version of yourself has died? He wonders what Dean would say (“What the _hell_ , Cas?”) and what Sam would say (“Just be honest, you know? But not - _too_ honest.”) and then looks up, hoping the quiet fir trees above him will offer some inspiration.

“If it’s any consolation,” he says, hoping this won’t be inappropriate, “Dean loved you very much. He thought of you as his real father, and his grief at losing you - I think that will never fully heal.” 

And maybe this was the wrong thing to say, because Bobby - Bobby looks at him as if Cas has punched him in the face - shock and pain and anger - before walking away, unlocking his car, and ducking inside; but, before Cas can decide if and how he can make the situation better, Bobby’s coming back. He stops a few steps away from Cas, thrusts a bundle of fabric in his hands.

“Here,” he says, roughly. “You can’t walk around like that.”

Cas accepts the item, finds it’s a blue cotton shirt, unironed but clean.

“Thank you.” This was the last thing he expected - does this mean his condolences were welcome?

“‘S an old thing,” Bobby says, shaking his head. “Well-worn. Shouldn’t disturb your scars at all.”

He keeps his eyes on Cas as Cas struggles with the shirt, closes all the buttons. It’s very different from Jimmy’s, but it seems to fit, and Cas feels marginally better. He wishes he had something to put on top of it - whatever Dean used to say (“Jesus, Cas - we’re home, you can take that thing off - you’re not John fucking Constantine, you know?”), Cas had liked his coat - he’d liked wearing it, and the comfort it gave him - how, to Jimmy, it’d been the symbol of a job he loved, and how its deep pockets would offer some cover whenever Cas needed to retrieve objects from the non-being. He thinks about his old coat, probably lost in some thrift shop, and then about the new one, now lying in bloody tatters on a wooden floor.

(He remembers the fleeting, hungry look in Dean’s eyes as he’d first put his shears on the fabric; pushes the memory away.)

Cas wishes things could be different, but if there’s one thing he’s learned in his long life is that - well - everything’s just as it is, no more, no less, and there’s no use in regretting what you cannot change.

No matter how _much_ you wish you could, in fact, change it.

(There’s a different memory swimming to the surface now - a dream of red and anger and loud noise, visions of chasing after prey and blinking at a night of blood and mist, and then - there it is again - Dean’s face, Dean’s eyes, Dean’s familiar, bright, impossibly _kind_ soul shining down on him - Cas remembers coming back to himself in a dark room, and he remembers Dean’s hands, Dean’s thumb tracing a small pattern of comfort and love on his cheek, Dean saying, urgently, _Are you alright? Are you back?_ and Cas - Cas had wanted, more than anything, to put his hands over Dean’s and - hold him there. He’d wanted to hug Dean, to feel Dean’s heart beat against his chest. He’d needed to make sure Dean was alive and well and unhurt, that Dean didn’t resent him for - for -

But he hadn’t moved, of course. 

Because what he’d seen, as soon as his eyes had adapted to the light of Dean’s affection? Cuts and bruises and the shape of his own fist on the side of Dean’s mouth. Dean’s lower lip, split open, dark blood oozing from the wound, and how careful Dean was with his words so he wouldn’t disturb it, and - of course - there is so much Cas knows about Dean that he’d recognized that focused fastidiousness - because Cas knows exactly how and how often Dean’s been hurt in his life, and he knows when Dean first learned to talk like that, out of a corner of his mouth, to spare himself some pain -

“Nice try, kid,” the man had said, and Dean had kept quiet and hadn’t fought back, because even at eleven, he’d known everything about right and wrong, and stealing from people, that was wrong, and if the man wanted to hit him for it, that was his right and okay and acceptable - anything but the police, _Please, please God_ , because a policeman would follow him back to his room and he’d find Sammy already asleep there, and that panic at the thought had cut so deep Cas had tasted it on his tongue all those years later, as he’d taken Dean’s hand in Hell; in that moment, when he’d seen everything, he’d also seen that - he’d seen the man like Dean had seen him, a tall nobody in a denim shirt, and he’d felt the punch against his own face and he hadn’t understood, not really, not quite, why Dean had been so worried about anybody finding Sam.

\- because Cas knows and he understands fear now, he understands pain and shock and sadness and the thought he put his hands on Dean - the thought he _hurt_ Dean, the dull certainty it’s his fault, _all_ of it - Dean’s right eye now darkening in blue and black blossoms - that barely there trail of blood now reaching his chin - the deafening ache inside his head Dean never mentioned but Cas could still feel - knowing that - _knowing_ that -

No. Cas has no right to ask more of Dean.

He can wish things were different, but they are not.)

“And he knows,” Bobby suddenly snaps. “You think he doesn’t know? Give him some credit.”

Cas tries to wade out of his unfocused sadness and concentrate on the matter at hand.

This is a different world. And Dean -

“I never meant to imply -”

“And it ain’t like that, anyway.”

One of the reasons Cas had chosen to be careful about this, and approach Bobby first, is because he knows humans mostly hold bizarre ideas about family, and tend to place a great deal of importance on trivial matters like gene transmission - something that is more of a biological necessity than a fundamental attribute of human culture; he certainly hadn’t meant to imply that Dean had been deceived by his wife into welcoming a child that’s not his.

“How is it?” he asks, because he finds he is, in fact, curious about this, even if he has no right to be.

(He thinks of this unnamed woman sharing Dean’s life, feels it again: the unexpected, shameful bout of jealousy.

Remembers asking Dean about children once, as they watched two sisters squabbling over a toy; remembers how Dean had made a sound that was almost a laugh before shaking his head and saying, _I wouldn’t be good at all that shit, Cas. Kids deserve -_

Kids deserve what? Dean had never finished his sentence; instead, he’d started a new one after a while, something about bronze blades and how they wouldn’t be enough for the striga they were hunting. Cas hadn’t asked for more, but he’d wondered, on and off, because there were days when he could see that string of words resurface on Dean’s mind - days when Dean would smile at babies in gas stations and diners, and simply think about it - a far away conversation that was never much at all, ten minutes of quiet in a park; a moment of summer in the middle of a war.)

“You wanna know about that, you go an' ask Dean,” Bobby says, very firmly, and he’s about to turn away again when Cas gets to the other urgent question that’s been sitting on his tongue all night, and Bobby freezes.

“Where is Sam?”

“Not here.”

The clearing is silent now, and Cas knows that silence is inside him, not out - that it’s his own exhausted mind yelling in pain and hurt and his brothers’ absence and his worry for Sam, as well - good, honest Sam - his best friend and a person he’s wronged and very nearly destroyed - but it’s harder and harder to stay focused on what’s dream and what’s reality, and that silence grows and grows until Cas thinks he’ll need to sit down soon. 

“What - what happened to him?”

“Whadda you think? _Lucifer_ happened to him.” 

Cas tries to take a step forward, almost collapses against Bobby, because Bobby is there, now - solid and steady and holding him up, despite his mistrust and his fear of angels and his very clear wish things would just go back to normal, and to hell with Cas.

“Dean told me,” Cas starts, looking beyond Bobby’s shoulder, “is Sam -”

“He’s alive,” Bobby answers, and even if Cas can’t see his soul as clearly as he can see Dean’s, the flash of gratitude (of pain and bitterness) is still blinding. “He lives down South, is all. He and Jess -”

The sentence goes nowhere, and Cas knows Bobby never meant to reveal even more information about their family.

But Jess is alive, and Sam is with her. 

This is good news, surely? Cas never truly met her, but he’d still seen her, on and off, in Sam’s voice, and the way he has of holding himself. He knows she mattered a great deal to him, knows -

“Come on, we gotta go. Dean said he’ll catch up, so.”

Cas is distracted as Bobby leads him to his car, helps him in, checks his seatbelt, as he would a child. The dull pain of his scars sharpens as he leans against the seat, and his mind is so full of things that it feels like an overflowing vessel - he knows he doesn’t want to leave Dean, not even for a minute, because this Dean reminds Cas of his own version of Dean and Cas needs the man back so badly he fears he will pass out; and also, he’s trying to reach out, on instinct, and find Sam’s soul, but, of course, he can’t see it - he’s too weak, and in this world, he and Sam never met. There is no connection between them.

And there’s something else, too.

The noise is back.

It sounds, most of all, like one of his brothers reaching out, and Cas can’t reach back, can’t see who it is, if it’s even an angel, or simply a trick of his own imagination. He’s not strong enough to keep his shields up, though, so if this _is_ an angel -

The thought unravels into nothingness.

“I can fix them,” Cas says, as Bobby starts driving down the winding forest road. “Both of them. And you, if you need anything.”

“What?”

Cas closes his eyes.

“Once I recover, I’ll be able to heal people again. And - I want to help.”

Bobby grunts.

“Angels helping out. That’s new.”

And here it is again - a slight push against his Grace, like the ripple of wind over still waters. Cas grips his seatbelt, opens his eyes.

“I apologize. On behalf of - my kind. Most of us mean well, but -”

“Yeah, I saw that,” Bobby says, and there’s a sort of quiet anger in the words, so deep and black Cas finds what he wanted to say next just withers on his tongue.

“I know this is a different world,” he offers instead, turning to look at Bobby. “But you are my family, and I _will_ help you, to the best of my abilities. I promise.”

Bobby simply huffs, and the rest of the drive passes in silence - trees giving way to fields and prairie, then houses, then more grass, as Cas fights to stay awake and fails. 

There are no dreams this time; just a soft darkness that is Cas’ earliest memory - something comforting and welcoming. A place to rest.

(Cas had met a physicist once, an unassuming man with crooked glasses; he’d listened to one of his lessons, hidden in the last row, and he’d marveled at how _close_ humanity was coming to understand God, because this man - the way he talked about space and time and matter - he was very nearly describing what they all were, the very essence of Grace and divinity and reality, and Cas had not meant to linger in that city at all, but _humans_ \- humans were nothing like many of his brothers described them.

They could _see_. They could _understand_.

They could, perhaps -)

“Come on,” Bobby says, unclicking the seat belt, and Cas wakes up with a start, moves to grab his blade before remembering where he is, and with whom.

(Realizes Dean has his weapon, anyway; hopes Dean will bring it back and not leave it in the dark underbelly of the cabin among all the other unwanted, forgotten relics of his life as a hunter.)

The house in front of them is fairly old, but someone’s taken good care of it. As he climbs out of the car, Cas see the toys first - a swing hanging from the tall sycamore tree in the garden, a collection of abandoned plastic animals, a tiny wooden shield with a star in the middle.

“Here.”

Cas accepts Bobby’s arm, but he still doesn’t move - for just a second, he looks up at the house, wonders if this is what Dean wants as well - his Dean, that is - an ancient farmhouse, the barn no doubt converted into a garage, the wooden steps fixed and refixed and fixed again by a loving hand. There are curtains in the windows, white fabric with a pattern of faded fruits, and an old, nameless mailbox close to where Bobby’s car is parked.

(He thinks about Dean’s room in the Bunker - about the empty desk, about the weapons on the wall. About the way Dean had laughed at him when Cas had first pointed out the Bunker had no windows.

About Dean turning around, glancing at his lips, then up again as he said, _We’ll paint your room blue, buddy._ )

“You feelin’ alright?”

Cas shakes his head.

“I simply need a few more hours of rest.”

“Couch okay, or you need a perch?” Bobby asks, and when Cas looks at him, finds his face is deliberately blank; knows Bobby is trying to reconcile his _safety first_ wish to push Cas as far away as possible from their lives with his unquenchable, innate _goodness_ \- and his trust in Dean.

“I will take the couch, thank you,” Cas says, dryly, and Bobby snorts.

The sky is turning cloudy again. Cas can feel the weight of rain to come over his skin, smells the air as he looks at the untended fields stretching in all directions, and the distant mountains.

“No neighbors,” he says, mildly, as Bobby helps him up the three steps and lets go of him to open the front door.

“Don’t read too much into it. ‘S a family house. Dean had nothing to do with it.”

“Do you mean - does this belong to -” Cas starts, but then he falls silent, because the first thing he sees as he walks through the door is a framed photo of a young woman - laughing and happy and magnificently _alive_. “Jo?”

Ignoring Bobby’s sharp glance, Cas walks closer, touches the glass with his fingers. 

Jo Harvelle is exactly as he remembers her - she’s beautiful, of course, but there’s a hint of steel and grit in her, and that shines through even as she smiles at the photographer (at Dean?), her dark eyes shining with mirth.

“How - you _know_ her?” Bobby asks, but Cas barely hears him.

So _this_ is the woman sharing Dean’s life. This is the woman waking up by his side every day; this is the woman who has the right to hold him close and comfort him and be there for him in a way Cas will never be allowed to.

This is the woman Dean chose, and in their world, Jo died.

A deep ache spreads and spreads inside Cas’ chest, a wave of cold and pain that seems to emanate directly from the glass under his fingers, because he _failed_ \- because he never knew how to protect Jo, never understood how _important_ she was, and does this mean - is this why Dean is angry and unhappy, why he walks around with a heavy weight against his heart? Is this the _real_ reason why? Because he and Jo - because what if he was supposed to (destined to) form a family with her and now - what _if_ -

_You should have let me die._

“Hey, featherhead - snap out of it.”

The voice is sharp, commanding, but there’s a thick vein of underlying fear, as well, and Cas suddenly realizes his Grace is spilling out of his human body - his wings are very nearly visible, and Bobby must be able to feel them, if not see them - he’s moved to one side, has closed his arms against his chest, because, of course, it’s colder now - because an angel’s true nature, that’s a cold no human ever experienced, or would be able to bear. 

(Cas remembers Sam asking him about it, in a casual way, as if it didn’t matter at all. _I’m always cold these days, is that - normal?_

He’d looked so _young_ , then - much younger than his twenty-six years, and definitely much too young to withstand the storm that was Lucifer circling him and discovering him and seducing him.)

“I’m fine,” Cas says, standing up a bit straighter and stepping back from the photo. “Does Ellen - is she around?”

Bobby frowns at him.

“Jo’s mom?” he asks. “Nah - she’s been dead for years. Twenty, at least.” 

Without waiting for an invitation, Cas moves past Bobby - he walks inside the neat living room, collapses on an old couch. He’s trying his best not to look at anything else inside the house, because he’s afraid he’ll lose control again, but as he fishes something hard from under his thigh and finds he’s holding a small knight figurine, he can’t help the flash of someone else’s memory from washing all over him - a young child with strawberry blond hair sitting right where he’s sitting now, her small hands holding the knight, turning it over and over in her fingers as Dean explains to her how medieval knights would need to be lifted on their horses - the child laughs, turns her face into her mother’s sweater, and Cas suddenly _sees_ her - Jo Harvelle, a few wisps of hair escaping from her braid, looking down at her daughter and then up - directly at Dean.

He sees the love in her gaze, and - 

He’s _happy_. 

Of _course_ he’s happy. Love is a blessing.

But there’s also something else inside him now.

Loneliness, perhaps.

( _We’re not like them_ , Hannah says, urgent and pleading. _We’ll never understand them, not fully, and - Castiel - they’ll never understand_ us _. You know it’s true._

And Naomi: _He’s_ mortal _, Castiel. This misplaced affection of yours will be the end of both of you._ )

“I think I need to sleep,” Cas says, and before Bobby can object, he’s forced himself to retreat inside his own mind - to fall back into that state Sam had once called deep meditation, even if it isn’t, not really -

(“When he touches me, it’s - cold. Is that -”)

\- a place where he doesn’t have to think about what he left behind, about Jack Kline and the danger he potentially represents -

(“You and I, Castiel, we are the same. They call us rebels, but we are merely - pioneers. Explorers of new lands.”)

\- a place where he won’t have to think about Dean, about what Dean lost - what Cas took from him - how he never understood, never -

(“Cas, we need you. _I_ need you.”)

\- a place of darkness and quiet and non-being which slowly, oh so _slowly_ , resolves itself in a single point of warmth against his human skin - in Dean’s hand, because Dean is here now, and as Cas wakes up, he sees this is the _other_ Dean, the one who lives in this other world with his wife and child, a man who doesn’t _know_ him and doesn’t understand how _dangerous_ it is to welcome an angel inside his house, a man -

“Hey - you okay?”

“Yes,” Cas says, sitting up a bit straighter, chasing the the webs of darkness away, and Dean leans back, take his hand off Cas’ knee.

Cas watches him as he adjusts his weight on the coffee table; as he picks up a Lego brick, then puts it down again.

“Bobby had to go to work,” he says in the end, but that’s not what his soul is saying. His words are casual, but something inside him is bright and red-hot and fighting to come out, and Cas watches as Dean tries, and fails, to rein it in.

Somewhere, a grandfather clock chimes eleven.

“I just wanted to, uh.”

Cas looks at him, then away. Now he’s getting stronger, and knows he will survive, there's a different kind of pain threatening to take him over - the thought he may very well never find his way back again; the certainty that even if he does -

“You can ask me anything,” he says, levelly.

Dean picks up the brick again, turns it in his fingers.

“I know ‘s none of my business,” he starts, embarrassed and determined and wary, “but - you and - you and _him_? Really?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is. I apologize for the delay, and also - I know I promised we'd finally find out about the child, and what happened between Dean and Jo, but this story seems to have a mind of its own. All I can do is hold on, and I'm barely managing that.  
> I'm planning the next update for next Saturday - fingers crossed.


	12. "I" Is for Idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a heads-up, there’s some pretty bad memories in this chapter about Dean getting roofied and raped when he was twenty-one, plus one mention of Alastair’s fun hobbies and John’s fantastic parenting. Now, if you know me, you know I never write abuse and torture in an overly graphic way, but - on the whole, this show’s pretty dark, and I think that darkness is worth exploring, so please remember this story’s tagged M for a reason.  
> As always - be careful and stay safe.

Dean wakes up with a start, catches the edge of the laptop as it slides off his knees; some part of his brain cheers the last minute save, but it’s a distant, off tune thing.

 _Fuck._

He rubs his eyes, leans back against the wall. He’s sitting on the kitchen floor, and everything is quiet around him - the fridge is buzzing sleepily, and the clock on the wall -

_The hell?_

\- the clock has stopped, because whatever time it is, it sure as hell isn’t midnight. Or midday. 

(Is it?)

And the batteries - Dean remember changing them after Sam up and left - he knows he went around the Bunker, room by room, cleaning and scrubbing and tidying shit, because this is their home, okay?, this is where they all live - him and Sammy and Cas - and they’re not animals, and that’s what people with homes, normal people - that’s what they _do_ \- they keep ‘em clean and nice and they change the fucking batteries and they got extra light bulbs in storage and Dean -

Yeah. So the clock should be working. Dean taps at the laptop to wake it up, and as he glances at the screen to see the time, he slowly starts to wonder what’s wrong with him.

Did he pass out here?

Was he _drinking_?

He doesn’t remember drinking.

The screen flashes to life. There’s porn playing, and the scene actually unfreezes as Dean stares at it - it’s something to do leather masks and whips and man, he hasn’t been into that kind of stuff for years now, so what the -

“One,” a voice says, “two -” and then there’s a sound that’s between a yell and a moan as a second voice snaps, “One, _sir_ ” but the background’s kind of distracting, because this is a kitchen and there’s a bowl of fake apples on the counter and who the hell even buys those things, what’s the damn point, and man, imagine the _dust_ on those motherfuckers -

“One, sir,” the first man repeats, obediently, and Dean finally moves the cursor and pauses the clip.

Why the _fuck_ is he watching porn in the kitchen? Where’s Sam?

According to the laptop, it’s four in the afternoon. Does that mean he’s slept for - for -

Dean stretches back, then taps his head against the wall, lightly - one, two, three times.

_Focus._

They’d found Jack.

(Right?

Yeah.)

Jack Kline.

Lucifer’s kid.

Dean closes his eyes.

He remembers the greenhouse, now, and the boy peering down at them from a metal shelf; he remembers him saying, his voice mimicking Dean’s, _I wanted to die_.

That had been, what - early morning? And Dean knows he should feel some worry right about now, he really does - there’s a voice yelling in his ear, someone who could be his dad, going on and on about stuff that can wipe your memory and stuff that can turn your brain inside out and _Dean! Dean, goddammit!_ \- 

(Also someone else saying _Easy now, easy_ , and the words - the words are stirring some forgotten fear deep inside him.)

\- but the sound is muffled, as if coming through fog. 

So Jack had looked inside them both. Right? Dean’s almost sure of it. He remembers, vaguely, as you do with dreams and nightmares and stuff that happened when you were a kid, Jack shouting random words at him, _pie_ and _Sammy_ and something else, something - but it’s like it happened to someone else, really.

Which is nice, to be honest, because his own head - that’s never a good place to be in.

 _Yeah, but also_ \- starts a new voice inside his head, and here it is again - the urgency, the certainty he’s forgotten something important; but what?

Dean stretches his neck, winces; looks down at the laptop again, almost in regret, because man, that sure looks like fun and when Cas gets bossy and bitchy Dean always -

 _Cas_.

The fridge’s buzzing dies down abruptly, and Dean closes his laptop with a snap, stands up, swears at his goddamn stiff shoulders and his goddamn stiff knees and at something just below his neck that’s hurting like a mother; and as he moves towards the table, he suddenly sees it - there’s one of Sam’s cereal bars there, one of those things with bold letters spelling NATURAL and ORGANIC on the side, only - only there are _things_ growing from it - long green vines sprouting directly from the seeds and turning and twisting their way towards the edge of the table. As Dean stares at the thing, bemused, there’s an audible _pop_ and a yellow flower blooms right in front of his eyes and it’s not like it’s ugly, or anything - it’s a decent-ass flower, as flowers go, but the whole thing is unsettling as _fuck_ \- just plain _wrong_ , man, and also -

_It’s - life, Dean._

“Right.”

Dean puts the laptop down, moves it to the side so the eldritch plant won’t get any ideas, then makes his way to the Map Room, his steps a bit slower than usual, white noise and voices chasing one another inside his head ( _That’s it, don’t fight it_ and _So he got a bit handsy_ and someone who could be Sam, or Jack’s version of Sam simply calling his name, all raw panic and shock) and that’s where he finds Sam - hunched almost double over a book several inches thick, and completely oblivious to the world around him.

“Hey, did you,” Dean starts, but, of course, there’s never a good way to ask someone if they remember you passing out and jacking off in their kitchen, so his sentence sputters and peters out in the silent room.

Also, Sam doesn’t turn around.

Dean walks closer, unnerved. He knows Sam gets like this sometimes - remembers making Sam start and curse when he was just a kid revising for his SATs - he knows that one time he actually got back to their motel room at three in the morning, covered in mud and guts - remembers walking all the way to the couch, leaning down, whispering directly into Sam’s ear (“I missed you, baby”) and the rest of it - yeah, that shit had been hilarious, ‘cause Sam - he’d jumped about a foot in the air and squealed and next they’d just - almost beaten each other up, and man, Dean had _missed_ that - his brother focusing on _him_ , thinking about _him_ , trying to outsmart him and hurt him a little bit and proving, in some wrong, fucked-up way, that Dean still _mattered_ to him - that he could still _see_ Dean, even if he never talked to him much anymore, and certainly not about anything that mattered and they mostly had separate lives, okay, in and out of bleak motel rooms at different hours, Dean bitching about Sam leaving crumbs and empty Red Bull cans everywhere and Sam yelling that he needed quiet, goddammit and _No, I don’t have time to hunt, Dean, come on_ \- but that fight, man, that had been good, and Dean had even worn his black eye with a relaxed, uncomplicated cheerfulness for a solid week after that.

But all that had been before.

When Sam thought he would get out, that is; that he _could_ get out. That he didn’t have to worry about monsters and demons, not really - that he could waste time on theater classes and dream about Stanford and forget to check the salt lines because Dean would be there, and he’d do it for him. 

(That other people’s lives were not on him; that the bumper sticker was delusional bullshit, and it’s not because they knew about monsters that they had to kill all of them themselves.

That it was not their job to, because even Yellow Eyes -)

And the thing is, Sam’s not been this person for a while now, and Dean - Dean’s a selfish dick, okay, because he should hate it - how Sam’s become this grown-ass man who hunts and kills things and God, he never _wanted_ to do either of those things - but at the same time, there’s a much bigger part of his heart that’s just - relieved. Because Sam can take care of his own damn self, now. Because he can keep himself _safe_ all on his own.

(Because that’s no longer Dean’s job, and how awful is it that Dean should ever resent - and he doesn't, shut the _fuck_ up - having Sam with him, watching him grow up, taking care of him - that was a goddamn _gift_ , okay, and Dean’s damn _proud_ of this person Sam’s become, so -)

And if Jack’s in the Bunker ( _is_ he in the Bunker? Dean doesn’t even remember how they got here), what the hell is Sam doing, zoning out and reading some shit until his ears bleed?

That’s useless; that’s _dangerous_.

“Sam?”

As Dean leans over Sam, he sees the book is in ancient Greek. Or that it’s using Greek letters, anyway - after that fucking manuscript they’d spent an entire Christmas break over, Dean won’t presume anything ever again.

(Who writes a spell in stenography English using Akkadian symbols, anyway? Fucking John Dee - Dean still can’t _believe_ that bastard got to live to his eighties. Someone should have done the world a favor and fucking gutted him, because -)

And the thing is, Sam doesn’t read Greek. Or not that fluently, anyway. Not in this kind of _I don’t need a dictionary_ and _I’m taking pencil notes as I go along_ and _Fuck off_ way - not a chance in _hell_.

“So what’s that?”

Sam doesn’t react in anyway. He turns the page instead and fuck, did Dean really - what the fuck did he _do_? Why isn’t Sam talking to him?

“Look, man, I’m sorry, I just - where’s Jack, anyway?”

At that, Sam does look up, and there’s the faintest gleam of gold in his eyes before he says, a bit too flatly, “On the roof.”

What the -

“Are you okay?”

But Sam’s already focusing on the book again. He waves his pencil at Dean - a small _go away_ gesture.

“I’m fine. Still have to finish this one. It’s the last one.”

Dean straightens up, gets a good look at the table. There’s about thirty books there - diaries and manuscripts and a scroll that’s seen better days and what the _hell_ does Sam mean, the last one? There’s no fucking _way_ he went through all this stuff in - in -

They must have left Montana at, what, eight? Dean almost stumbles as he remembers Jack looking up at him from the front seat, asking _Shotgun?_ in a slow, tentative voice. He remembers tossing the keys to Sam, because there was no way he was driving with - with that thing staring at him, and then -

There’s nothing after that.

 _Easy now_ , a man’s voice say, and Dean closes his hands into fists.

Did Jack mojo them here?

(Where’s Baby?)

Did they drive?

(If Morning Star Junior landed the car in the library or some shit, Dean’s going to _fucking_ -)

“I, um. How long was I out?”

Sam shrugs.

“Jack put you to sleep about nine days ago.”

Dean stares at him.

“What the _fuck_ , Sam?”

“He said you were not functional to this and you’d get bored,” Sam says, in the same cold voice, like this is not a big deal and he doesn't give a damn, anyway; and as he turns the page, the full weight of his words crash into Dean like a fucking truck and clamp around his body and there’s something in his mouth, now, trying to claw its way out - he clenches his jaw, ‘cause he’s not about to throw up, okay? He’s fucking _not_. 

_We’ll make it good for you_ , the same voice says, and it leaves behind a stench of something burning as someone else explains, in careful bits of sentence, that _Your son may simply be slow, Mr Winchester - feeble-minded, you know?_ and now there’s images as well as sound - a small-town drugstore and shelves about four times tall as Dean is and his father turning to look down at him and Dean knows he should say something, _anything_ , because there’s all these words inside him and they’ve got the same nauseating taste warm milk sometimes gets, but he can’t - he _can’t_ \- and the thing freezes, fades, becomes Sam’s voice, strong and sure in Dean’s ears - _You were not functional to this and you’d get bored_ \- and then that other voice starts whispering again.

_I got you. See? All good. We’ll take care of you, I promise._

Dean rises a fist up to his mouth, tries to focus on the back of Sam’s head, the rapid movement of his pencil on the paper.

Nine _days_.

It can’t be true.

Can it?

His last memory, though: Jack rolling down the window, leaning out like Sam used to do when he was younger, smiling up at him.

_Shotgun?_

( _Easy, now._ )

Dean suddenly takes a step back, pats himself down - his face, his ribs, the buttons of his jeans (all closed, and thank fucking _God_ ). He doesn’t even feel hungry, but that doesn’t mean much. They spent how many days fucking around in Gabriel’s made-up world? And after that - now he thinks about it, coming out from that had felt - like Dean feels right now. Like waking up after sleeping on something uncomfortable, and half your body hurts and aches and your mind’s a bit slow, okay, but nothing coffee won’t fix.

No, the problem here is -

“And you - you _let_ him?”

Sam shrugs again, and Dean - Cas had asked him about it, more than once - Dean’s bad temper, Dean’s anger, Dean’s relentless, constant _fury_ had been the focal point of, like, half their fucking conversations, and Dean had never managed to explain, never wanted to, but he knows _exactly_ why he’s like this, okay?, and Cas should have known without needing to ask him, the dumb _bastard_ , because it’s just - fucking hell, anger is _easier_. It’s easier than fear and it’s easier than guilt and it’s easier than accepting your whole life means nothing and whatever you do won’t change anything and those people you care about will keep fucking _dying_ , one after the other, and god _dammit_ -

“It’s not healthy, Dean”, Cas had said in the very beginning, and he’d been staring into the distance, because that’s what Cas used to be like (all interesting and mysterious and Dean was always _this_ close to believe Cas _did_ practice that shit in front of some celestial mirror before inflicting it on him). “Anger causes high blood pressure and increases -”

“I don’t fucking _care_ ,” Dean had snapped. “Stop babying me. You can save you -”

Your - what? Dean hadn’t had a good term back then, because whatever the reason was for Cas to keep suggesting new ways Dean could get healthier, well, affection or interest in his wellbeing certainly wasn’t one of them. Maybe he’d simply been trying to understand, which was complete bullshit, okay, ‘cause Cas had understood anger inside and out even before meeting Dean, and Dean wasn’t buying -

And now, now Dean can almost _taste_ the feeling blooming inside him, doing all those things Cas had listed more than once in a voice that had gotten more and more concerned over the years - blood pounding in his ears, muscles tightening, stomach dropping - a drive to just _end_ Jack, because forget about Rohypnoling the fuck out of him ( _forget about that_ ) - what Jack’s done to _Sam_ \- what he’s - because whoever this thing is reading his goddamn book and writing careful words in the corners, that’s _not_ his brother.

It takes Dean exactly four minutes to walk to the kitchen, get a big bowl off a shelf, fill it with cold water and come back.

(He thinks, he _fears_ , Jack will show up and stop him, but that never happens.)

“Hey - Sammy?”

Sam looks up at him. His eyes pass over the bowl Dean’s holding, register nothing amiss. His face’s completely blank, but the more Dean wakes up from the spell, the more obvious it is that Sam was put under some kind of kinky magic as well - that he’s spent the last nine days doing God knows what, and the thought is turning Dean inside out with the same kind of wordless fear that spreads through him whenever Sam’s hurt, whenever he’s in danger, whenever -

( _We’ll make it good for you, I promise._ )

\- and his hair’s greasy and lifeless, okay, and there’s a light stubble darkening his skin, only just (and, whatever, Dean will never stop teasing Sam about that - how he’s got the facial hair of a twelve year old) and he’s got that thing about him Dean would recognize anywhere - a general vibe of not sleeping and not eating and not being outside enough and Jesus - Sam can go on and on about his goddamn kale smoothies and his daily 10K, but Dean remembers what he used to be like before all that health nut shit, okay - a smelly teen nose deep in some eighteenth century novel who’d only realize it was time for dinner if Dean threw a marshmallow at his face, so, and this is exactly what he looks like now - a faded, lifeless version of himself, something like a plant kept in the dark. And the worst of it is the complete _apathy_ of his expression - how he’s acting like Dean’s not even here, like there’s nothing unusual in someone standing in front of you with a goddamn bowl of cold water sploshing everywhere - like he doesn’t even care to guess what’s that for. And he’s actually about to go back to his reading when Dean closes the distance between them and pours the entire damn thing over his head, reaches forward with his right hand as Sam coughs and raises his arms up - grabs Sam’s drenched shirt, ‘cause yeah, he’ll drag his brother to the kitchen, push his head in the sink if that was not -

“Dean, stop it - Jesus Christ - _Dean_ -”

For a second, there’s a flash of anger, and Dean tightens his grip on the wet fabric, gives a little shake so Sam will have to stare straight at him.

“Are you _back_?” he growls; and then he gives a hard push, and Sam falls back - the chair moves, tips over, crashes to the ground as Sam jumps out of it, his movements hindered by his stiff jeans.

“What the _hell_?” he snaps, pushing his hair out of his face; and he’s about to add something else when his eyes widen. “Wait, what - did Jack -”

Dean just stands there as Sam’s gaze flickers to the table; he watches his brother taking everything in, remembering everything - and _fuck_ , he hopes the porn was Jack’s initiative, because that’s messed up - and something in how he looks at Dean after (an urgent, clenched jaw thing that anyone else would dismiss as nothing at all but Dean recognizes as near panic) finally melts Dean’s anger into - into -

He’s missed nine days of his life.

He doesn’t remember anything about the time he lost.

He doesn’t know if Jack left him alone - if he spent nine days sitting on that kitchen floor, his ass getting colder and colder, his laptop fighting to die a natural death as Jack’s golden buzz kept the battery alive - or -

Or not.

(Did Jack send him out of the Bunker on some kind of mission?

Did he access more of his memories?

Did he cut him open and - marvel at the vulnerable intricacies of a human body, like Alastair used to do?

 _Look at this, Deano - 785 square feet - did you know your lungs were so big? How about I give them back, so we can talk about it? Nod if you agree, that’s a good boy._ )

Dean takes a step back, tries to shake the memory off, because he’s being _stupid_ , okay?, he goddamn _is_ \- Jack just wanted him out of the way, is all - there’s no big conspiracy here, so there’s no need to think about - about -

( _Easy now._ )

“Dean, I’m - God. I’m sorry. I know you - are you alright?” Sam asks, in slow, uncertain bits of sentence, and thing is, Dean can almost see his brother's entire heart shattering in guilt and regret, and _fuck_.

Truth is, he _hates_ this, because whatever he remembers of that summer, Sam knows much more. Has to. And Dean’s always suspected it, but there was never any good way to ask and who the fuck cares, anyway, uh? Who the fuck _cares_? What good would have done to ask Sam - to ask him -

_Dean, let me take you to a hospital. Please._

\- and Dean doesn't even know if went and babbled about it - all he remembers is waking up, right, hours after that, feverish and sick and fucked the hell up - remembers that first moment of panic, that uncomfortable (familiar) feeling of not knowing if the thing all over your skin is sweat or blood - and then -

 _Dean,_ please.

But when Dean had woken up the second time, Sam hadn’t said anything. He’d tossed him an Advil from the other bed, had started to whine about LA being the absolute worst and how Dad had called and said they should get their asses to Idaho, and next - Dean remembers that conversation in fits and starts - “Let’s just go,” Sam had said, “I’ll drive,” and that had been his one mistake, because yeah, so Dean didn’t remember coming back to the motel and he didn’t remember stumbling into bed and scaring Sam half his wits and turning his face to the wall when Sam had begged him to go and see a doctor, but this - Sam was a decent driver even at sixteen, but he got bored easily and preferred to sprawl his long legs all over the back seat and read (he’d push his socked feet up against the window just to start an argument, because Dad never gave a shit about that, but Dean - did Sam even understand how much _time_ Dean spent on the car - in fixing it and cleaning it and making sure it never smelled like ass and maybe if Sam took a goddamn _shower_ from time to time -) - and so this, right there, this was an _I know you can’t sit up right now_ and goddammit -

“Dean -”

Sam is fully himself now, Dean’s faced enough monsters pretending to be his brother to know the original from the 2.0 version, and that’s what Dean was after - he’d wanted, he’d _needed_ , to wake Sam the fuck _up_ , but he’d never counted on this - on Sam looking at him like he used to look at roadkill and bullied kids, at Sam -

“Shut up.”

“We’ll ask him for that time back,” Sam insists, as if whatever bond of trust they established with Jack, for, like ten seconds back in the greenhouse can be made whole again. “We’ll explain -”

“I don’t _want_ it back,” Dean lies. “I woke up on the damn floor with _Good Will Humping_ on fucking repeat, you think I want a play-by-play of that?”

“You - _what_?”

“Listen, let’s just -”

Let’s just - what? Dean has no plan here. The only thing he knows is that he wants Cas and Mary back, and what’s even the point to talk to Jack about that? The guy’s not exactly the poster child of mental health, also it’s been _weeks_ , who even knows -

(They’re both dead, aren't they?

Dean never got there in time, that’s the truth of it, because maybe they had a chance, but that’s gone now. 

It's over.)

“What he did - I’m sure he meant well -”

“Oh, if you’re sure, I guess that makes it -” 

“- but it’s _not_ okay. He needs to know that. He can't just - we need to explain him that.”

Nine days of his life, gone. Nine days of Mom with Lucifer, nine days of Cas doing God knows what - nine days of just sitting down, completely powerless, and anyone could have - anyone -

( _Hey, come on - you'll like it, sweetheart._ )

Yeah - _not okay_ doesn’t even scratch the surface of that.

Dean moves to the other side of the table, tosses one of his own shirts - not exactly clean, but dry - in Sam’s general direction.

“Yeah, this is not band camp, Sam. I don’t give a _shit_ about any of that - I don’t want to sit there and watch you go all Kumbaya and chat about feelings, okay -”

Sam looks down at the shirt in his hands, then up again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice is low enough Dean can pretend he didn’t hear it. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop him.”

_I’m sorry I never stopped them._

“Wasn’t your fault.”

_Just - shut up. Please._

There’s a moment of blessed silence as Sam dries his face, makes at attempt to do something about his hair, gives up, and Dean can almost hope -

“You know, that was our last hunt.”

\- aaaand fuck it.

“What?”

“Our last hunt as a family.”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” Dean asks, just to play for time; and he realizes, even before Sam starts speaking again, that he’s actually right.

That _had_ been their last hunt as a family.

 _Jesus_. It almost makes sense, doesn’t it, in a fucked up and _fuck you_ kind of way. It’s ironic, and should mean something, that it ended with such a clusterfuck - that’s their whole family dynamic right there, uh?

Because Dean remembers how it had started - he remembers every detail of that slow, hot, unforgiving summer. 

(Well, not _every_ detail, obviously. 

Not that last night, if anyone's keeping track.)

Middle of July, they’d gone all the way down to Mexico - Sam had _hated_ it - he’d spent the entire time reading some Civil War novel in a distant, aggressive way - and next they’d heard of a spate of strange murders on the West Coast, and so - Dean remembers Dad driving North, how he’d been angry for some reason. He remembers every last thing about the victims, because, yeah.

(It’d been young men; guys of Sam’s age, Hispanic kids who’d all looked the same, ‘cause the thing - whatever it was, it had a type or some shit. There’d been pictures some friend of Dad’s had sent over: corpses looking up at the sky with empty eye sockets, their chest a labyrinth of dried blood. _Lungs removed_ , the post-it on top of the folder said, and inside it Dean had found some information, possibly not relevant, about the guys themselves. Ernesto Bayardo, sixteen, Miguel Herrera, seventeen, and Julio Rivera, fifteen fucking years old, and what kind of background can you even drudge up on a fifteen-year-old? _God_.

They’d been _kids_.) 

Dean and Dad had hit the books, and Sam - Sam had helped, which was a miracle in itself, and Dean had been glad for it, even if Sam, of course, was still not talking to either of them and was mostly an angry presence following them around libraries and herb shops and seedy bars. And Dean knows, could swear on his damn _life_ , that after exactly nineteen days, Dad had given up and left. He’d said - hell, there had been no need to say much. They had no clues, there was nothing pointing to a supernatural creature at all. The murders had stopped before they’d even crossed SR 91. The police were looking into gang stuff, which, let’s be honest, was a hella lot more likely than a vampire with a taste for lung tissue. It was 100 fucking degrees, 95% humidity. And Dad - Dad was never happy in big cities, but he’d been getting more and more short-tempered for months, and Dean had pieced it all together only years after that - how Dad had been circling Yellow Eyes, and he hadn’t told them, how he - fuck - how, like Sam, he’d never liked hunting a whole lot, had always done it more as both a service to others and a penance, but with Yellow Eyes suddenly in the crosshairs - yeah. 

And so he’d left.

(Not a shocker, either. They were plenty used to it.)

It’d been Sam, weirdly, who’d insisted that they look into everything one more time. That had taken them a week or so, and after that - there had been some kind of fight, and Dean doesn’t remember what it had been about, but can still taste the fury and heat and anger of it - remembers how it had felt to hold Sam’s thin wrists, knows he was sweating, okay, because the motel’s AC was broken; knows Sam actually head-butted him, the little shit - remembers letting go, stumbling back against the door, and what Sam had shouted at him - _You don’t do this to_ help _people - you just like_ killing _. You’re even worse than -_

Dean hadn’t waited to listen to the end of that sentence. He’d almost run out the door, his nose bleeding, and after that - after that - that’s when things get blurry.

Dean looks at his brother now, and this Sam, a grown man with broad shoulders and a line of heartbreak cutting his face in half, seems to fold on himself and become that kid all over again - a kid who’d become taller than Dean during that exact summer, a kid who’d been all sharp angles and sharp words and man, Dean would have _died_ for him, but that doesn’t mean - he never wanted Sam to know about this - about something Dean doesn’t remember himself, because -

There had been a bar, Dean’s almost sure of it. And the first guy - he’d been shorter than him. That’s why Dean had accepted the drink, he thinks. Because the guy hadn't come off as all that bright, and was also short and weak and no threat whatsoever. And Dean had left his wallet back at the motel, so. And that drink - Dean’s almost sure it was a cocktail. Something pink? He knows the guy had pushed it towards him and he’d said something like, _Hey, listen - want this? She stood me up - can you believe that shit? That’s chicks for you._

_Thanks, man. Crazy bitch, uh? Tell me about it._

And lying in bed over the next three days, a bit feverish and very unhappy, Dean had tethered on the very edge of forcing himself to remember. He’d wanted to treat it like a case, and he’d known those guys were dangerous, and someone should probably stop them, and if stopping them meant killing them dead, yeah, he was more than okay with that -

( _You just like_ killing _, you’re worse than -_ )

\- because so they were humans, but they fucking had it coming, okay? They fucking _did_. 

But also, remembering meant - it meant remembering. Like, everything. 

(Or - enough.) 

And Dean could do without that, and fuck, he’d be jjust _fine_ if the weather just stopped being so damn crappy, and that’s what he’d told Sam in the morning - that he had a cold or some shit, and yeah, _If Dad wants us to go to Idaho, let’s go to fucking Idaho_ and _Shut up, Sam_ and _'S nothing three Advils won’t fix_ and then he'd waited for Sam to go and get the car before trying to stand up - before walking all the way to the bathroom, and it’d taken him ten fucking minutes and he’d tripped and fell against the wall and everything had come right off - pieces of colored string and photographs and dozens of papers - official police reports and morgue stuff and post-its covered in Dad’s irregular handwriting and Dean had placed his hand flat over the sun and stars wallpaper and he’d wanted to cry, okay, because he’s a girl and an idiot and that never changed and if Sam doesn’t stop looking at him like that - 

“Dean, I’m so sorry.”

There is some kind of sound when the bowl Dean was still holding falls to the floor and shatters, but it’s nothing - it doesn’t matter, it’s not even something he’ll need to clean up. The thing broke in two neat halves, and that’s the end of it.

(Because after that - Sam had been too busy with school to follow them around all the time, and Dad had started disappearing more and more and Dean would drive somewhere and find people who were counting on him to stop murders - _You’re John’s boy? Thank the Lord you’re here_ \- and how the hell was he even supposed to do that and Sam mostly didn’t answer his phone and Dad’s was always off and -

 _Man the fuck up - Jesus._ )

“So what did Jack want? What’s all this?”

( _What did he do to you?_ is what Dean’s saying, and now he can see Sam’s perfectly okay, so he’s not worried, exactly, but still - he was hoping finding Jack would lead more to an _Everything is magically fixed_ scenario than this shit they’re in now.)

Sam hesitates, seems to realize there isn’t a chance in hell Dean will stay there and listen to whatever the fuck he wanted to talk about, finally puts down Dean’s shirt and gestures to the table.

“What we needed to open a portal. Spells, and whatever. I went through it, and I think - I think I can do it.”

A moment of silence, and another piece of memory clicks into place in Dean’s brain.

“Because you got your powers back, you mean.”

Sam pushes his hair back, starts to unbutton his wet shirt in clipped, efficient movements.

“Yeah, uhm - I think Jack did that. And it’s not exactly - it’s not how it was before, it’s more - I don’t know. I haven’t -” he says, and okay, so that’s a goddamn lie, but Sam is drenched and miserable and he’s spent nine days under some shitty spell, same as him, so Dean lets it go.

For now.

The thing is, though, they know each other too well for this shit to work, and as they make their way up to the roof, Dean can feel Sam’s guilt coming at him in goddamn waves, and he knows he should say something, but he’s still - he feels like he’s just woken up, okay, which he did, cut me a break, and his mind’s still a jumble of broken memories and snide voices and he really wants to take a shower, but that will have to wait, and -

Sam suddenly stops walking and Dean - Dean looks up and blinks.

On a normal day, there wouldn’t be anything on the Bunker’s roof, ‘cause Dean doesn’t like surprises and he’d chainsawed the shit out of anything growing in a sixty-foot radius, but today isn’t a normal way, because they’re lucky like that.

No, today, there’s goddamn trees growing all over the place, and weirdass flowers, and right in front of them, fuck, there’s Jack - sitting cross-legged on a bunch of moss like some fucking hippy, his entire body covered in grass and shrubbery and what the _fuck_?

As Sam takes a step closer to him, Jack’s golden eyes open.

“Sam,” he says, in a voice that’s no longer a human voice at all, “Dean.”

“This a bad moment?” Dean can almost feel Sam glaring at him, but he doesn’t give a damn. “Only, clock is ticking, you know, and we thought -”

“You want to walk through the shroud of living matter and save your friends. I understand.”

As Dean watches, something that looks like poison ivy makes its way through Jack’s hair and comes down to his forehead.

“Did he just say ‘shroud of living matter’?”

“So?”

“What is this, _The Lord of the fucking Rings_?”

“Dean, come on -”

“Fuck's sake, just _look_ at him.” Dean gestures at Jack, gives up. 

(The guy’s insane, Cas and Mary are dead, the angels will be on their asses soon enough and crash a fucking meteorite on the Bunker, so -)

“Jack, I read the books. I know how to do it, but I still need -”

There’s a beam of light, so sudden and so bright Dean curses out loud - the thing flashes directly from Jack’s face and Sam staggers, almost falls down, as he’s hit square in the chest -

“ _Sammy!_ ”

“I’m - I’m good. I'm doing it, Dean - I'm doing it now.” 

Sam stands up straight again - his eyes flash gold for a second, and then he turns away from Dean, starts moving his hands in the air and it’s half a dance and half a spell and Dean’s gonna kill somebody, right about now -

“This shit’s dangerous,” he snaps, turning towards Jack. “Why can’t _you_ do it?”

“I love everyone equally,” Jack says, his face now flowering with green stuff and leaves, and that’s no explanation at all.

“What the fuck does that -”

“I am life,” Jack adds, and okay, it’s sort of impressive now he’s managed to turn the dead and scorched clearing around them into the fucking Great Valley, but Dean’s _not_ happy, so fuck it. “Death needs to walk my path, lest we all perish.”

 _What the_ hell _?_

“Lest? Listen, _buddy_ ,” Dean starts, but there’s a dull noise from behind him, and fuck, there’s something in front of Sam now - patch of air darker than the rest, shimmering and flickering between his hands, and if Sam can really do it, this means Dean’s gotta take Jack and fucking _go_ -

“I will not be coming with you, Dean. It is forbidden.”

“ _What_?”

“I need Death. It is the only way.” Jack says, and Dean almost doesn't catch that, because Sam’s leveled up to words, now - stuff that could be Latin and is probably not - he reaches out, almost blindly, grasps Sam’s shirt just to make sure his stupid kid brother isn’t walking anywhere alone -

“Yeah, Death died, kid - you need a plan B, or a plan” _D, for dumbass_ , that’s what Dean meant to say, but it never comes out, because whatever the fuck’s happening on Sam’s end, it’s almost done, and Jack blinks his cat eyes at it, slow and careful and perfectly content.

“Death cannot die, Dean. If he’s asleep in this world, he’ll be awake in another.”

As Dean stares at him, two more vines emerge from behind his head and cover his face with bright green leaves, so that there’s nothing left at all - just a vague human shape, a goddamn statue of twigs and flowers and buzzing beetles, their metal wings tiny suns in the darkening light, and Dean -

“Hold on,” Sam rasps, and he takes Dean’s hand and - there’s darkness and falling and cold and okay, so it’s not the first time they get to travel in some wonky way, and Dean’s plenty used to angels and their annoying as fuck zapping, but this is - _Jesus_ \- the landing is _brutal_ , and his left knee takes the worst of it - as his training kicks in, Dean swallows the pain down, gets to his feet in one swift movement, but everything is still weird and blurry - he sees people, at least three of them, and there’s fires burning, and someone’s screaming - someone that’s not him, Dean’s almost sure of that - and he’s left there, breathing hard, just this side of being sick, as Sam steps in front of him and yells, “Stop! What are you _doing_? Please - _stop_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So - this chapter was really hard to write - I basically had to stand up and take breaks and it still wasn't enough, because, man, the way I write Dean and these glimpses into his past are pretty canon, aren't they, and uuuuuugh, what a shitty, unforgiving life he's had - my heart truly breaks for him. As they say, _all that pain and misery and loneliness - and it just made him kind._


	13. Tannhäuser Gate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. I've been very busy over the last few weeks, but I'm hoping to have more time on my hands now, and this story is mostly everything I think about, so let's hope I can put it on paper the way I want.
> 
> The title, of course, comes from the original _Blade Runner_ (and, man, you should really see the sequel if you haven't already), because this replicant thing hit a little too close to home.

Cas knows that human beings often experience moments of confusion, incredulity or anxiety as their brains work to piece together the information experienced by the senses. A fully grown amygdala will have thousands of emotional memories to sort through at any given moment, and a mistake is inevitable. As as for the hippocampus, it -

(“Stop talking about the inside of my head, Cas. It’s fucking _creepy_.”)

\- well. The point is, human beings are complex and well-functioning and nearly as intricate as ferns and cephalopods, but, unlike angels, they do have their glitches and their limitations. Cas used to dismiss them, to see them as bothersome, meaningless bouts of white noise. He never saw any purpose to them whatsoever, but now - now he sometimes wishes he could go through life the way a human would, because this question, right here -

(“You and - you and _him_? Really?”)

\- yes, Cas wishes he could pretend he doesn’t know what Dean is asking; wishes he could be afforded the luxury of not understanding, if only for a few seconds, what is going on, and what the repercussions of that question are.

But wishing something, of course, doesn’t make it true, and Cas should know that by now.

As he looks at Dean’s open, worried expression, bits of sentences flash in Cas’ brain and are swallowed down again. _Me and who_ , he could say, or _I don’t know what you mean_. Or even, _You’re right, it’s none of your business_. And also, _You have this all wrong_.

And Cas is about to settle on _I don’t think we should talk about that_ when he makes a mistake and slips into Dean’s soul, and the colors there blind him and deafen him for a second, because Dean - Cas remembers meeting him in Hell, and this is not the same person, not exactly, but still - everything is there - the same shades of guilt, of doubt, of profound and undying loyalty; of love. And Cas - he’d told himself he was never going to lie to Dean again, and this man, this man currently fiddling with his not-daughter’s Legos, well - he’s similar enough to the man Cas was forced to leave behind that he can’t - he _won’t_ -

“Bella is not your child,” he says. “And yet she is. I do not understand that.”

Dean closes his fingers around the little blue brick, lets out a sound that’s half relief, half embarrassment.

“Jesus. So this is gonna be a _Show me yours, I’ll show you mine_ thing? Okay. Brings me back.” He laughs, but he’s - not unhappy, perhaps, but definitely uncomfortable.

Cas waits, hoping Dean won’t go on, because he knows the rules, knows that if Dean refuses to share his life with him, then Cas won’t have to tell him his own secrets - won’t have to think about his own world, to try and explain what this feeling is between him and Dean - the Dean he knows, that is; the Dean who looks at him when he thinks Cas can’t see him, and then shakes his head, his soul flaring up in the orange glare of self-doubt and self-hatred and Cas will never -

But Dean does go on.

He doesn’t want to, perhaps (surely), and he’s fidgeting now, and everything he is knows this _not_ a good idea - there are thirty years of hunting reminding him this is _dangerous_ \- that Cas is not human and not to be trusted and more powerful than anything that’s left on this Earth - that the smart move would be gutting him right now, before he’s completely healed, because after that - after that -

(Because _angels_ -)

Cas doesn’t even have to try: the memory of his commander, God’s first child and most powerful creation, is all over Dean’s skin, as pervading and acrid as cigarette smoke. Michael is the music of storms, the inevitable, arrogant passing of the seasons, and even if he took great care to erase himself from Dean’s consciousness, Cas can still see him. And he knows that Dean can see Michael too - he doesn’t remember all of it, of course, and there are memories he can’t access, but the thing is still there - Dean’s primal knowledge of angels: a threatening, unmovable mass in the empty space between them.

There is pain, there; resentment and bitterness.

And, most of all, fear.

Cas remains very still in his borrowed shirt as Dean looks him up and down in the same subtle, barely there way his Dean checks for exit points and weaknesses in enemies; he watches (with his mind, not his eyes) as Dean’s soul hesitates and reforms around a stubborn, irrational determination, sees the exact moment Dean decides that what the hell, he will trust Cas with this.

(Which means he will expect the same trust in return, and Cas -)

“Right. Uh, Bobby told me you know Jo?”

“Knew,” Cas stupidly say, and he wants to reach out, he does, when Dean’s face breaks from the inside out, but the thing lasts for barely a second before Dean looks away, shifts his weight on the coffee table, and starts talking again.

“Me and Jo,” he says, a bit too loudly, as if erasing Cas’ word from existence, “we’ve known each other forever. Bill and Bobby were friends, and my dad, obviously - I mean, we didn’t exactly - we didn’t live close by, or anything, ‘cause Dad - you know what he was like.”

Cas nods, but privately he wonders at this unforeseen turn of events. Did John share Sam’s - problem - with two fellow hunters? Did he decide to trust someone other than Dean with Sam’s life? And Bill Harvelle, of all people? Because Cas met Bill Harvelle in his own world - although, 'met' is too strong a word for what was a brief survey into the Winchesters’ past and John Winchester’s life - and he remembers an angry, wary man - someone who was happier hunting on his own, and would disappear for months at a time even when he had nothing and no one in his crosshair. And John hadn’t trusted that man with Sam’s life, but maybe Cas is being unfair; maybe losing Ellen, and having to raise Jo - maybe stumbling into Bobby’s life as they were both grieving for their wives - yes, maybe that made a difference. Everyone can change, after all: that is the gift and the curse God imparted on his favorite creation. 

“So, you know,” Dean adds, a bit awkwardly, after it becomes clear Cas won’t say anything about John Winchester, “we spent our summers together, most of the time. We’d - learn about cars and stuff while Sam was off reading somewhere, and when - when the war began -” 

A flash of light in the room: the stark, fixed memory of three children alone in a junkyard, all of them very different from what Cas remembers. The thing moves in a loop, suspended between Dean’s words and the workings of his mind, and Cas sees Jo first - a girl dressed in boys clothes, gritty and happy, clearly the boss of her little gang. In this sunny afternoon, she’s crouching down, drawing something in the dirt with a broken off windshield wiper, her ponytail catching the light, almost blinding Cas. This is a girl who fears nothing, because monsters aren’t real to her, and this is how she spends her summers - not in the half-darkness of a bar, listening to stories of gore and death when Ellen’s too busy to look after her - no, here she is, imposing a game on her friends, talking in fast words Cas cannot hear about rules and points, her fingernails black with car grease. And when she moves back, Cas sees Sam, sitting cross-legged on an old wheel rim, and he is - he looks the same, of course, but it’s clear, perfectly obvious, that he had a very different life, and Cas is almost overwhelmed by sadness at this vision of what could have been. Because Sam is - he’s well looked after. It's as simply and as complicated as that. He’s wearing clothes that fit him, and his hair has not been cut by a child, or a drunk - this is a child who doesn’t eat sweets and beef jerky and cereals for days on end, and this is not a child who knows he’s different (unwanted; guilty of some unknowable crime). And Cas tries to push back these treacherous thoughts, because he doesn’t like looking at this glimpse of a different world and compare this reality with his own - it would end, eventually, with faulting Dean in some way, in listing the ways he could have been a better parent to his brother, and Cas can’t - _won’t_ do that. 

Ever. 

What happened in his world is not on Dean, and yet - watching this child right now, seeing Sam sit back and pick at a band-aid on his knee - this is making Cas ache; it's breaking something inside him he never knew was there to be broken.

He blinks, and that’s when Dean runs into the frame, and Cas -

Dean is so _different_.

He’s talking to Jo, pointing at something Cas cannot see, and he is - he’s just a child. Eleven years old, and this life he spends on the road is an adventure to him. He doesn’t know about the supernatural yet, and that’s why he likes the training his father puts him through - he likes the wrestling, the shooting, the puzzle-solving. He thinks it’s all a game, and what matters to him right in this moment is how unfair it is that Jo always decides what to do, that she never listens to him - nothing more. Cas sees him glance at Sam, but it’s not a way to make sure his brother is okay - it’s not Dean’s usual _Have you eaten? Are you hurt?_ look. This is different. This is simply a silent exchange between siblings of different ages, this is Dean wishing Sam would go elsewhere for two stupid minutes so he and Jo don’t have to play hide-and-seek like stupid kids, and there’s no guilt behind that thought, no self-hatred at all. Cas sees Sam look levelly back at Dean, a stubborn _I want to play with you guys_ sentiment all over his mouth and eyes, and then - then Jo gives Dean a little punch to get his attention back, and the memory loses color and life as Dean’s thoughts shift.

Cas blinks again, pushes the whole thing away. He can’t think about Sam and Dean right now, and he certainly can’t afford to wallow in what-ifs. He focuses on the room around him instead - on the sleepy sounds of the old house, on the buzzing of the fridge, on Dean himself, now passing a hand through his hair, shaking his head.

“We’re the same age, right?, so we just -” 

And again, Cas sees what Dean is trying to convey. How he and Jo had finally tired of childish games, how they’d taken to spending more and more time simply listening to music in Jo’s bedroom, lighting up stolen cigarettes and coughing the smoke out. He sees Dean sitting on the floor, his back against a peeling Jim Morrison poster. He’s silent as he listens to Jo, who looks as tomboyish at fourteen as she did at eleven, but the silence is not uncomfortable. There’s a closeness there, the kind of bond that’s only forged between people who grew up together. 

“We used to send Sam on those fake treasure hunts when we wanted to get rid of him, you know?” Dean’s voice suddenly changes, and Cas knows him well enough (because this is Dean, in every way that matters) to be absolutely sure that hesitation - the sudden, piercing _longing_ \- was not about Jo at all. “And Sammy - he’d fall for it every time. He’d just -”

Cas watches as Dean gestures, a vague thing that almost disappears inside the bright, bittersweet color of his soul.

(Where _is_ Sam?)

“ _Fuck._ ”

“It doesn’t matter. I understand.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, and there’s hope in there, hope he won’t have to explain himself further, but also a kind of bellicose jealousy, as if he can’t believe that Castiel, an angel, a being from a different world, could really have the measure of his life.

“It’s - sweet,” Cas says. He stands up and turns around, hiding the expression that’s seconds away from emerging on his face. “I - I know how that works.”

The room around him is almost oppressively domestic. Cas’ eyes land on a very old stitchwork alphabet hanging beside the door, and he raises his mental shields, shoos away the memories the careful letters are beaming at him.

“There is no need to - I’m happy you and Jo could experience that. I imagine you shared your first kiss with her,” Cas says, immediately regretting the words (Dean makes a sound behind him, but Cas doesn’t look his way), “and - and also -”

 _You had sex with her_ , Cas thinks, _for the very first time_ , but thankfully, he never translates that into words. 

Dean’s sexual life is nothing to do with him - not here, not back home. He’s being irrational and stupid, and he wants to blame it on his injuries, on this weakness he still feels inside himself, but he can’t.

This is something else.

(The truth is, he should never have initiated this conversation at all. This is not his world, and the man behind him owes him nothing.)

“Dude, it wasn’t -”

“I’ve seen movies about it, you must have gone to prom together -”

“Yeah, but that was an accident -”

“- people do that - it’s less common that you’d assume, and historically, not a solidly anchored tradition,” Cas continues, now pacing to the window, then back, “but I always understood the attraction of it - learning together, becoming someone’s entire world - _marrying your high school sweetheart_ , I think the phrase goes -”

Cas is suddenly jolted out of his disconnected thoughts by another memory - Jo - simply Jo walking through the exact door he’s now looking at, and this is an adult woman, her cheek streaked with car grease, her tired eyes lighting up when she sees the family she’s coming home to - Dean and Bella playing on the floor, perhaps, and Bobby shouting something to do with dinner over the sound of a Disney cartoon - whatever it was, Jo’s smile widens, and the memory is so pervading, so incredibly _loud_ , that Cas’ hand is halfway to her face, almost about to clean the black stain off, as Dean had done.

“Man, you got this so _wrong_ ,” Dean says from behind him, shattering the illusion, and that’s the worst thing he could have said, because Cas _knows_ he got it wrong - knows he can never understand and pin down these human feelings - and he’d thought, for the longest time, that it didn’t matter at all, but then -

(Dean rolling his eyes at him, Dean stepping in front of him to speak with a bewildered police officer, Dean visibly trying to keep it together, to act like it’s no big deal, to find the words to explain what Cas had done wrong this time, and Dean never much shouted at him like he had in the beginning, it’s true, and Cas remembers that - Dean’s anger flickering in blues and blacks all around his face, and how hard his voice was when he berated him for something or other - no, Dean is quiet now, puzzled and frustrated and patient with him, and when he says, _Cas, buddy, the thing is_ , well, he’s always smiling.

But that’s never a real smile.

Cas may not know a lot, but he knows that much.

Dean doesn’t like to remember that Cas is - _different_ \- and why would he, really?)

“Have I?” he snaps. He turns around, takes a step closer to Dean - but then he immediately stops, because he doesn’t miss the sharp second of fear on Dean’s face - he raises both hands, in apology, in pleading, tries again. “How am I wrong, Dean?” 

Dean stares at him, his hands clenching and unclenching on top of his knees.

“We were never - it wasn’t like that,” he tries, and there it is again - the underlying caution, now, in his words - as if he’s suddenly realized what Cas is, how unpredictable, and how dangerous he can become. 

“Like what?”

“I - do you - can you understand human relationships? Have you ever -” Dean asks, finally, and Cas cuts him off.

“I understand sex,” he says, firmly, putting his whole weight behind this one truth, because Dean is right, and Cas doesn’t know, not really, what being with someone is like - from unspoken negotiations over a glass of beer to whatever a friendship with benefits is to a lifetime together, human love takes a myriad of different shapes, and Cas can’t claim to know how any of them works, but sex - Cas finds he can’t shut down the childish impulse to show this Dean that he’s not completely ignorant of human touch and human feelings; that he was human once, and that he - he -

There’s a stunned, shocked something on Dean’s face now, and Cas turns away from him again, because he can’t - because he knows what Dean must be thinking, because there’s a gigantic _No fucking way_ all over his eyes and mouth right now, and he’s not wrong, is he? 

Cas never had sex with _Dean_.

Cas had sex with - with -

He walks to the far wall, lifts a window open with such force he hears the frame creak and splinter.

He had sex with a woman who did not want that.

If she was even alive, that is.

Maybe the Reaper had killed her first, and Cas had been so stupid, so blind, so _limited_ he hadn’t even -

He hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

He hadn’t _wanted_ to.

(Because it’d been _good_.)

Cas bends over, his elbows on the polished wood, and breathes in the cold air.

It’d been so _good_. Privately, he’d always looked down on Balthazar for letting himself enjoy such - such trivial pursuits, and he’d never truly stopped and wondered if this meaningless touching half the species on Earth seemed to engage on was anything to be taken seriously. To him, from the safe distance of his own faith, of his own stubborn trust in mission and duty, sexual congress had always seemed the least efficient way to push life forward. He would occasionally rescue a drowning mallard hen, or run with a wolf through the wilderness as it followed the elusive scent of a female, and wonder at the foolishness of it all. And humans - humans weren’t much better than ducks and wolves. They made things so needlessly complicated. They hurt one another. They sometimes risked everything for - for -

“Sorry, I didn’t mean -”

Dean’s voice is a distant, out-of-tune thing. Cas closes his eyes against the windswept landscape in front of him and tries to pull himself together.

The truth is, there is a closeness in sex Cas had never experienced before. 

When he’d become human, that was what had hit him first: the isolation. The silence and the stillness. His brothers’ voice was gone, of course, but even talking to Dean had felt different than before. Cas was used to - to having a _connection_ to Dean, as pathetic as that sounded (a one-sided, unwise connection, but still). And when he talked to Dean, when Dean talked to him, he could - _feel_ it. There was no distance between them, because Dean’s soul - it called out to Cas’ Grace, and Cas could see its tendrils swirling and flickering and completing whatever Dean was saying with more meaningful, deeper layers. Because even if no longer read Dean’s mind (he’d stopped doing that years ago, when Dean had first told him not to do it), Cas could still see - Dean’s mood, perhaps. Dean’s heart. And, lately, those soft, warm colors that were there just for him - that burned low inside Dean’s soul whenever Dean looked at him, that were there, friendly and safe and utterly _necessary_ , even when Dean was talking about inconsequential matters. _You feel like eating tonight?_ he’d say, and Cas would hear those other things inside the question - the undeserved and dangerous affection Dean felt for him.

(“He’s human, Castiel. How do you imagine his story will end?”)

And after Metatron had cut his Grace out, that light had gone. Cas would look at Dean and see - see whatever superficial thoughts Dean was experiencing, or wanted to share with him. It was like Dean had suddenly stopped - like he’d -

(Cas remembers kissing the woman’s warm skin and wonder at it - at the fact his whole body was responding so deeply to a person he didn’t know at all. He’d told himself not to, of course, because it was wrong in so many ways, but as he’d kissed her, as he’d felt his newly formed human soul open up and blossom under her touch, he’d still tried to imagine how this would feel with Dean - because if there was so much warmth and happiness with a complete stranger - if this felt so safe and beautiful with someone he didn’t know at all, then maybe - maybe with Dean it would have felt the same way looking at Dean’s soul did.

Or even - maybe -

Maybe it would have felt like coming home.)

There’s a hand on the small of his back now, and Cas almost jumps - he didn’t hear Dean move, and these thoughts he’s having - this thing he’s doing - it’s all a foolish fancy, anyway. He can’t actually feel the cold Wyoming air on his face, because angels can’t feel anything of the sort. He’s behaving like a human, he’s allowing himself to drown in nostalgia and self-pity when Dean and Sam need him - need him to keep his head, need him to come back and fight for them.

He straightens up, closes the window.

Dean’s hand disappears.

“We fell out,” he says, choosing to ignore Cas’ strange behaviour. Cas hears him walk away, cross into the kitchen.

He remembers he’d wanted to know about this - about Dean and Jo’s courtship - and that’s why he walks back, sits on the couch, his mind carefully blank.

Or as blank as he can make it, in any case.

“Jo had a fight with Sam. An ugly thing. I don’t even remember what it was about,” Dean says, reappearing with two bottles of orange soda, and Cas knows at once that he’s lying. Of course he remembers what the row was about; even without prying, Cas can read his face well enough to see Sam had been in the wrong, and Dean had taken his side anyway. “So we, uhm, we stopped hunting together. Didn’t see each other for a couple of years, I think. Maybe more.”

He uses a ring on his right hand to pop the bottles open, offers one to Cas.

Cas accepts it.

It seems like an apology. Of what, he isn't sure.

“I was mostly hunting alone in that period,” Dean adds, and takes a swig of the orange liquid. “Sam was in Stanford, and my dad - yeah. You know him.”

Cas nods, sits back on the couch - an invitation for Dean to make himself comfortable as well, to forget, or forgive, Cas’ unseemly reaction, and the implications of it.

“I knew she was going steady with someone, but not much else. Bill and Bobby were tracking something big, and they wanted to leave me and Jo out of it. Too dangerous, they said.”

This was the around the time the Apocalypse began, Cas can see that in the uneasy way Dean moves around, in how unwilling he is to drag up bad memories, and the guilt rises up again, black and bitter. He shouldn’t have asked about any of this - this man doesn’t know him, and yet he saved his life. Cas has no right to demand anything else out of him.

“Dean, I -”

“But, yeah, that didn’t work out. And when we finally got our heads together, Dad and Bill had been killed, and it was too late to stop any of it. Or maybe we couldn’t have, anyway. Maybe it was supposed to go down this way.”

Dean drinks again, checks his phone; then he finally comes and sits down on the coffee table again, looks at Cas with a tired smile.

“But, yeah. Jo and I - it didn’t happen the way you’re thinking. In fact, I was seeing someone too - nothing serious, just - just a last night on Earth thing, you know?”

“I do,” Cas says, and as he does, he realizes this is a sexual feeling to Dean, as it is for many humans - the idea that, if everything is lost, one might as well seek out as much pleasure as one can - and -

Dean had wanted to experience that with him.

Hadn't he?

Cas remembers the old house, the smell of mildew and past sorrows, generations of them - he remembers Dean closing in on him, bending low over the back of his chair. 

_Well, last night on Earth - what are your plans?_

And, sure, Cas had understood, from the sudden change of light in Dean’s soul, that he’d been thinking about sex; had even understood the undercurrent logic of it - how sex would help him feel better, forget about the upcoming fight - but he’d never guessed the overture had been meant for _him_.

(Had it, though? 

And even if Dean had wanted that (once), it would hardly change anything, would it? Cas can hardly blame him for seeking a hormone-induced thrill with whomever was closest to him at the time - with the most convenient partner he could find, and that’s -)

“His name was Richie,” Dean says, and he stands up again, his back a straight line of - Cas is not quite sure.

Grief, maybe.

Or anger. 

(Dean had touched him twice, that night - once in the abandoned house, and the other time as they were heading back to the Impala - Dean had been breathless with laughter, had leaned on him heavily, spluttering half words whenever he managed to catch his breath.

And finally, finally he’d calmed down - straightened Cas’ tie - Cas remembers wondering at how close Dean was standing, much too close, and what about that 'personal' space he’d once explained about - he remembers Dean staring at his mouth, his hands still holding on to Cas’ tie in an aggressive, almost proprietary way - how he’d just stood there, uncomprehending, until Dean had shaken his head and pushed him back.

 _Jesus, Cas_ , he’d said; and he’d never explained why he was even laughing at him in the first place.)

“Richie,” Cas repeats, in an effort to anchor himself in the conversation.

“Yeah.”

It’s a bit of both, perhaps: anger and grief.

As feelings go, not an unusual combination.

“Jo figured it out when I was - after she thought we’d both died,” Dean says, after a short silence. “After - after the Black River Stand.”

Dean’s hands grip the glass bottle so tightly his knuckles turn white, and Cas reaches out automatically, touches his arm in comfort.

He’d thought he wanted to know, but that had been a wrong instinct on his part - the wrong choice to make, again. He’s forcing Dean to revisit a very painful past, and as for himself, he’s - the only result he’s achieving here is being reminded of his own shortcomings, of how he’ll never understand these creatures he claims to prefer to all others - to love, even.

As if he knew what the word even means.

Dean’s skin is warm under his fingers (present, alive - mortal) and for a moment, Cas is intensely, idiotically nostalgic of a reality he could understand - of his brothers, of Heaven. Of time turning on itself like a lazy sea creature belly up in the water, unconcerned and unaware of its own reality. Of a quiet existence of war and prayer.

His longing lasts only for a second, but it’s a second too long.

Because the foreign presence in Cas’ mind, the voice that’s been getting closer and closer over the last couple of days, is suddenly there again - powerful and triumphant and zeroing in on his position.

There is a song to it, and Cas stands up, the bottle falling from his fingers, his mind full of sharp angles and unfinished plans.

“Are you warded against angels?” he asks, urgently, and Dean stares back at him in blank horror.

“You can do that?” he replies, but it’s too late - they’re both blinded and deafened as the big sitting room window explodes inwards, glass shards and wood splinters filling the air with light and noise.


	14. The Stolen Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the bright side, this chapter is extra long!  
> On the not so bright side - *slides mug of hot chocolate across the table*

For the first few years, John had turned it into a game. 

_If you needed to, could you open that window?_ he’d say, his strong arms bracketing Sam’s body as Sam sat on his lap, and Dean would look around the diner and frown. _It’s got no handle_ , he’d answer, obediently, and John would nod. _What if you_ really _needed to open it, though? Could you break the glass?_ he’d ask, and Dean would shake his head - he was used to lifting up his brother to help him get dressed and change his diaper, so he knew full well he wasn’t very strong. Not like dad, anyway. And in those moments, Dean sometimes wished he wasn’t strong at all - he would have liked to be very young, like Sammy, so he could have fun with his old Etch A Sketch (now Sammy’s) and just let the world slide out of focus all around him. _Dean? Are you listening to me?_ his dad would say, and next, they’d discuss ways to break out of the diner - John would send Dean to the restroom and have him check for windows or back doors, they’d look around surreptitiously for heavy objects that could be used as weapons, and also come up with stories about the people in the other booths so they could work out who was anxious, who was happy, set apart those who were probably well off and those who’d noticed them and what their reaction was (some assumed John was a widower, Dean learned to read that in the fleeting instant of pity in their eyes, while others just pursed their lips and imagined their mother to be God knows where, and look at the poor man juggling two children on his own). Only - it hadn't been a game, of course, but an awareness exercise - a thing about identifying threats and exit points (and occasionally potential marks for cons and thefts). And Dean - he’d gone along with it sort of empty-mindedly until he’d learned what it meant to stand up to John and refuse to do it.

(He’d been sick, that day. It’d been a miserable and ice-melting hot summer afternoon, and they’d been in some parking lot, Sammy asleep in the back seat. Dean still thinks about it, from time to time - how something had curled up and grown inside his stomach like a beach ball, how _important_ it had been to say no - he wasn't feeling good, he didn’t want to do this, and he _wouldn’t_ \- period. He knows that had been the first time he’d told John no, and the memory still stings - how Dad had forced him out of the car, had talked and talked at him, a speech that had started off as a quiet, angry thing about respect and had ended in half shouts about how _selfish_ Dean was, how Sammy was counting on him because he was so little and couldn’t do anything himself yet, and if Dean refused to learn about that stuff, well, then he gave up on protecting himself, and John didn’t give a shit about that, ‘cause who needs an ungrateful brat around, uh, but Dean was also choosing not to protect _Sam_ , and that - _that_ John gave a damn about, and so should Dean. 

_Are we clear on that?_

_Yes._

_Yes?_

_Yes, sir._

_Good. So_ answer _me, then, goddammit. How many cars, son?_ ) 

And Dean’s been trying to resent his father for years, and he’s come close, to all of it - to bitterness and regret and plain hatred - he’s had his share of sleepless nights, and that time he had to look after Ben had been - that kid was a little shit sometimes, because that’s what kids are like, okay, and Lisa had encouraged Dean to hold his own and push back, but every time Dean tried that, all he could see was that drab police station in Hurleyville, and a lady cop mouthing to her colleague, _His father says he’s not coming_ and the way they’d both looked at him, pity and sympathy but also a knee-jerk, fed-up annoyance, yeah, because he was _their_ problem know - a teenage thief not even a father would want back, and what the hell should they do with him? 

( _I’ll call Sonny, see if he’s got a place for one more_ , the guy had said after a few minutes, and Dean had been left to wonder for two full hours who Sonny was and what he’d do to him.)

So, yeah, that was - that was not okay, but at the same time, that’s how Dean now does what he does. That’s how he can push to one side everything he’s feeling - the sudden bout of nausea, the landing shock and how it punched against the back of his knees, his worry for Sam, because being juiced-up, that’s never a good thing in his experience, whatever the juice is, and also - also everything fucking else - his hidden, stubborn, _stupid_ hope that Mary and Cas are still alive somewhere, and that weight Jack’s put on his shoulders, ‘cause the world - their world - is fucking ending, fucking _again_ , and that’s on _them_ to fix and god _dammit_. 

And that’s how Dean catches his balance and gets his bearings - they’re in an underground room, a big thing with a tall ceiling whose concrete walls are heavily warded - he spots some runes he knows, some Enochian words, but a lot of it is just gibberish - and he and Sam are heavily outnumbered - there’s about twenty people in front of them, all strangers, all dressed in improvised combat gear that’s seen better days. Some are bandaged, or favoring their right or their left leg, and Dean makes a mental note of it in case they have to fight their way out. There’s a woman directly in front of him, and his eyes cross hers for a second before Dean realizes that she’s blind; still, she seems to be staring directly at him, and what the fuck?

“Dean?” Sam calls, urgently, and Dean turns, only just, so he can see his brother without losing sight of the people in front of him, and as he does so -

Fucking _hell_.

\- there’s a second room behind him, sealed off by a glass wall, and through it -

“Stop that!” Someone is trying to prevent Sam from barging against the wall, but Sam’s got one foot on the guy and there’s no weapons involved (yet) and Dean finds he can’t tear his eyes away from what’s happening beyond the glass.

Because that other room’s got the same raw concrete walls, but there are no symbols painted on them - instead, there’s - _things_. Instruments and tools Dean knows intimately well, and also - a fucking wooden cross, right in the middle, and someone tied to it - a man wearing a blindfold, a man who’s now screaming as the woman standing next to him pokes a cattle prod against his chest, and Dean - he can’t hear the man screaming, ‘cause the glass is too thick, but it’s like he can - he can smell the flesh burning, and fuck, he _knows_ what that smells like, there's nights he -

 _Just like that_ , Alastair says inside his mind, his voice a low and warm promise of better things to come, and Dean staggers away from the glass just as Sam elbows his opponent in the face and shouts, “ _Stop_ it! Stop that!”

The man tries charging him again, and Sam turns to face him, tall and dangerous and absolutely furious, when a second voice chimes up.

“Twelve, fifteen - enough.”

It’s the blind woman, her words heavy with some accent Dean can’t place, and everything - stops. The man next to Sam steps back, a hint of relief on his broad face, and the woman behind the glass lowers her prod and moves to one side, pushing her bangs out of her eyes.

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” Dean asks. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“You are the ones who were promised,” the woman says, quietly, just as Sam says, “Dean - Dean, that’s _Crowley_.”

“ _What?_ ”

That wound is still too fresh, something Dean’s been afraid to even touch, and that’s why he makes a mistake - he turns around, gives the crucified man his full attention.

And he looks and looks and looks at him and, fuck - no _way_ that’s Crowley.

The guy’s Middle-Eastern, for starters. Or Asian, or something. His blindfold’s too wide for Dean to see his face clearly, but patches of his dark brown, heavily tattooed skin are still visible through the tatters of what used to be -

 _Fuck._

\- a very expensive suit.

“How do you know it’s him?” he growls, and he hears Sam come closer to him, then stop.

“I can see his face,” Sam finally says, very quietly, and Dean - Dean wants to laugh. Or cry. Whatever.

“You can see demons’ _faces_ now? Well, that’s good news.”

“Dean -”

“No, I mean it. Cherry on the fucking top of a fantastic, _special_ day.”

Sam stays quiet for a minute and they both watch as the prisoner takes a shuddering breath and flexes the fingers of his right hand - maybe he’s testing them, or maybe it’s just a spasm. 

“It’s probably temporary,” Sam adds, then, and Dean snorts.

“Yeah. Sure it is. That's good, then. Knock yourself out.”

“Dean -”

“No, you know what? You should draw him, or something. A nice, classy charcoal portrait, that would make us -”

“We need to talk to you,” the woman says, from behind him, and Dean becomes aware of them again - of the silent, watchful little crowd that’s been waiting for he and Sam to stop squabbling.

“Yeah? And I need some fucking pie, lady, that’s what I need,” he bites back at her, and it was a way to shut her up, nothing more - until Dean realizes that goddammit, he’s actually _hungry_ \- that he hasn’t eaten anything in - in nine fucking days, and _Jesus_.

“We sent scouts after the woman who came through the portal,” the woman adds, completely unmoved by Dean’s rudeness. “We expect to find her soon.”

At that, Sam’s face does something interesting that’s probably too small for anyone else to notice, but Dean understands him at once - he’s relieved there’s news of their mother, hopeful they can find her alive, after all, afraid she’s out there alone and wary these people are looking for her, because, on the whole, they’re a pretty freakish group, Dean thinks, with their blood-stained clothes and their silent gawking and their enchanted torture chamber and why the _fuck_ isn’t anyone else speaking at all? 

And what did the woman mean, _You are the ones who were promised_?

“You mean Mary? Mary Winches-”

Something happens to Sam’s voice mid-sentence - he grasps at his throat, and his eyes go briefly yellow as he pushes back against whatever magic that is and overcomes it.

“We don’t use names, here,” someone new says, and what the _hell_ \- this is fucking -

“Bobby?” Dean asks, and he shouldn’t be shocked to see the man walking out of the shadow, ‘cause he’s seen him once already, right, and he knew, _hoped_ , Bobby would be here, but it’s still - it’s _still_ -

“What did I just say? Are you slow, boy?”

“Hey, how about you fucking explain -”

“Names can be tracked,” the blind woman says, serenely, as if it’s no big deal. “We assign ourselves numbers, instead. They change every three days.”

“Neat trick. Gotta remember that.”

“Dean, don’t be an asshole. Bob - I mean - we come from a different dimension, and -”

“We know that. You fucked everything up.”

“What?”

“You are the ones that were promised,” the woman repeats, almost talking over not-Bobby, and this time there’s a hint of steel in her voice, as if warning him to shut the hell up.

“That’s our friend in there,” Sam adds, after a moment of silence. “Can you just -”

“Our _friend_?” There’s something surreal in hearing Sam use the term after all these years, but Dean’s still too fucking angry (at himself; at the world) to let him get away with it. “We don’t know _who_ that fucking is, Sam. He’s sure as hell not -”

\- _our Crowley_ , it’s what it means to say, but it sounds - too affectionate, too proprietary, and way too fucking _much_ for someone who definitely wasn’t anybody’s.

There’s something heavy, unfriendly, as well, about this room; it’s like Dean can feel the wardings pressing down against the back of his neck, and while he’s grateful (sure, why not) for the protection they afford them all, their in-your-face - _warmth_ \- is not helping things.

“We _owe_ him,” Sam insists. “Dean, he _died_ -”

“I know how he fucking _died_ , thanks, and that’s not him in there,” Dean snaps, gesturing at the man tied to the cross. “We don’t know who that is.”

“We don’t either,” the woman says, and who even asked her. “Our diviner says he’s a demon, but demons can’t assume a human form.”

“ _What_?”

“Maybe you can assist us in finding the truth of the matter?” The woman gestures, and one of the War Boys extras standing around immediately obeys her unspoken order, moving to a hidden door that clearly leads to the torture chamber. He turns two locks and then - waits, holding it open.

Dean looks at Sam, and doesn’t like what he finds there. At all.

“I’ll take care of this,” his brother says in the end. “You go find Cas.”

“Sam -”

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” Sam says, already moving past him. “I’m new and improved, remember?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Dean mutters, and Sam pretends not to hear him as he strides through the door and disappears.

As he turns back to the crowd, Dean has a sudden _taking an exam naked in a dream_ feeling, ‘cause those fuckers - they’re all looking at him now, waiting for him to - to do _what_ , exactly? And he’s trying not to look a Bobby, either, ‘cause looking at Bobby makes Dean want to chew his own arm off, but whenever he looks away his eyes inevitably land on the blind woman - her bright red dress is the only splash of color in the room - and that’s not better, either.

_The ones who were promised._

That’s never good news, and _fuck_.

He passes his hand through his hair, then steps forward, only just, so he can feel the weight of his weapons - the gun in the back of his pants, the two knives by his ankles, the brass knuckles in the right pocket of his jacket - not as good as the ones they’d stolen from the Brits, but good enough.

Thing is, they’ve had worse, right? They’ve had _much_ worse. 

And these guys have Mary in their scopes, but haven’t mentioned Lucifer at all, which means the guy’s laying low - or, with any luck, dead in a ditch somewhere - and Sam can open a portal back any time he wants (or, at least, Dean hopes so, because if they’re stuck here, he’s gonna tear someone a new one) - all they need now is find Cas, and then they can get the hell out, and fuck this place. 

Still ignoring Bobby, Dean takes a second step forward, speaks directly to the blind woman. 

“Listen, Mama Fratelli, we’re looking for an angel here. Name is Cas-”

“ _Quiet_ ,” the woman says, and Dean feels it in the back of his mouth - the sudden rush of the magic she used on him.

It lasts for only a second, but _Jesus_.

“What the _fuck_?” he snaps, touching his neck, as if to check for wounds or blood.

“I told you, no names,” not-Bobby says, and something about his world-weariness is so damn _familiar_ Dean almost bites the inside of his cheek all the way to raw blood.

“Okay, okay - whatever. I’m gonna write it down, okay? This is kinda urgent.”

As he pats his pockets, he realizes he doesn’t have a single scrap of paper on him, and no one makes a move to give him one. They all just stare at him, the same combination of scared and hopeful he’d noticed at the very beginning. With an annoyed hiss, he fishes a Sharpie out of his jacket and writes in clear, black letters on the palm of his left hand.

Bobby moves closer, looks at it, and something flickers on his face - something Dean doesn’t like at all.

“Yeah, we know her,” he says, and -

“ _What_?”

“I said, we know her.”

There’s no reason for this to be so weird. Dean knows, deep down ( _very_ deep down), that Cas is not a dude or a lady or anything else, and he knows Cas has used different vessels before, but, whatever - there’s something - something really _wrong_ in hearing not-Bobby being all casual about it.

_We know her._

Dean is suddenly overwhelmed with longing - he thinks about that thing that is no longer Jimmy Novak’s body, currently lying in the Bunker’s crypt - he thinks about Cas’ masculine, sharp edges, about his unshaven jaw, and the rare glimpses of Cas’ naked skin he’s had when patching Cas up after a fight. He thinks about that first time Cas had paid attention to the body he'd been forcing himself into for years - how he’d unbuttoned his shirt, flipped his own blade to Dean, handle first.

 _It needs to be precise, Dean_ , he’d said, in his gravelly voice, and he’d never understood Dean’s hesitation at all.

 _Fuck_.

“Okay, well. I need to talk to - to her.”

Not-Bobby glances at the blind woman, frowns.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says, and Dean’s had just about enough.

“I don’t give a _shit_ what you think. I want to see him,” he snaps, and something in his voice makes Bobby reach for his gun. 

“Four,” the blind woman calls, and that must be Bobby’s name for the week, because he calms down, shakes his head.

“Okay, fine. You go see her right now, princess. But if you die in there, I ain’t cleanin’ it up.”

Dean ignores him, and as it happened before, someone breaks away from the crowd - a young man with a shaved head; as Dean watches, he moves to a second door, unbolts it and waits for Dean to catch up. 

“Uh - thanks.”

It’s not very honest, and Dean sort of hopes he can grab Cas and Sam without ever seeing these guys again so they can look for Mary on their own, but - they helped, didn’t they? In between the torture and the awkward silence and the weirdass magic, they _helped_.

“We will be waiting for you, Dean,” the woman says, ‘cause apparently the rules don’t apply to him, and he waves at her before he can stop himself.

“Yeah. Okay,” he adds, trying to cover that up, and then he follows his guide through the door. 

The corridor behind it, he finds, is very faintly lit, and the occasional ward gleams darkly on the walls, its reddish color the familiar hue of dried blood.

“Real welcoming,” Dean says, knowing he’s being an asshole and unable to help it.

This place is giving him the fucking _creeps_.

The guy in front of him shrugs without turning around.

“It’s safe,” he says. “Or so they promise us.”

“Hey - what did she mean, demons can’t look like humans? What do they look like?”

There’s no answer, and Dean is left to imagine that as they take a sharp turn left, then another. As they walk deeper and deeper into the half darkness, his thoughts get pretty unpleasant, ‘cause even with his black eyes, he hadn’t been able to fully _look_ at a demon - sure, he’d seen Lilith that one time, but that was - she wasn’t _normal_ , was she? 

No _way_ Crowley looks like that.

( _Stop thinking about it, pet. As they say, it’s what on the outside that matters_ , Crowley had once said, stretching back on the bed, and Dean had blinked his eyes back to green and hitched his pants up.

 _I’m just curious, is all_ , he’d said, defensively, and Crowley had laughed.

_No, you’re not. You’re not capable of being curious yet. For now, it’s food and sex and blood._

_How long, then?_

And Crowley had watched him then, his eyes passing on the fiery pentagram tattoo.

 _A while_. 

_But -_

_Don’t worry, I’ll get you there._ )

“I like that movie, by the way,” the guy suddenly says, jolting Dean out of his thoughts. “ _The Goonies_. It was my brother’s favorite.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The sequel was cool too,” he adds, and now he turns around, almost grins at Dean. “That scene underwater -”

“The _sequel_?”

“Yeah. The Tarantino thing?”

It’s absurd and unimportant and not what he needs to focus on right now, but Dean still stops in his tracks.

“Quentin fucking _Tarantino_ directed a sequel of _The Goonies_?”

The guy looks uncertain now. He’s much younger than Dean had first assumed - early twenties, maybe.

“You - didn’t see it?”

“In my world, he never fucking did that. Fuck, that’s unfair.”

“I think - Eighteen should have a DVD. Somewhere.”

“Deal,” Dean says, and this time the guy grins at him before start walking again.

“Name’s Twenty, by the way.”

“No offense, but it sounds weird as fuck.”

“Better than getting killed,” the guy says, and okay, that’s a good point.

Also, Dean’s been trying to keep a mental map of where they’re going, but as they take another turn, he’s gotta admit to himself that he’s lost. The place is a goddamn labyrinth. A repurposed military bunker, if Dean had to guess, and after their stint in that black ops site, he’s not exactly a fan of this kind of architecture. And sure, he and Sam and Cas - they live underground too, but this - concrete walls, shaky light bulbs overhead, the occasional safety exit (all of them sealed, and that’s making the hair on the back of his neck stand up) - yeah, it’s not a pretty picture.

Then again, these guys are fighting a war, and Dean can’t suppress the irrational (inevitable) bout of guilt, because that’s on _him_ , right? Cas had said - he’d said this is a world where he and Sam were never born, and that means this whole thing is his fault, in some fucked up way. 

The corridor looms dark and silent ahead of them, and again, they take a turn, and then another. Dean can see his guide is slowing down now, can almost smell the fear on him; and when they finally come to a bolted steel door Twenty stops, half turns back to Dean.

“I know it’s none of my business,” he starts, and it’s clear as day where this is going.

Dean will have none of it.

“Damn sure it isn’t. Open that door.”

“It’s been a few weeks,” Twenty edges. “We don’t even know if she’s -”

“Open that goddamn door _now_ , kid. I mean it.”

This was not someone born in the life, Dean can see as much just by looking at him, and he’s not a soldier, either - he hesitates, and it’s clear that Dean’s threat is not having much of an effect. Whatever is on the other side of this door, well - that’s scaring Twenty _much_ more than Dean ever could.

Dean knows from experience that civilians react unpredictably to orders - some rush to obey, others freeze, and many just get confrontational - but _kindness_ \- that usually gets a better response.

 _You could try kindness because it’s the right thing to do, not out of some - some fucked up Quantico crap_ , Sam had once shouted at him, and Dean had just laughed.

_My Quantico crap usually gets us through the door, Sammy. People like you know ‘cause you look about six - wait a few years and tell me if kindness still works._

_I won’t fucking be here in a few years_ , Sam had bit back, and, whatever - he’d been right.

For a time, at least.

“Listen, I - I came a long way, okay? I just want to speak to him. Please? You don’t need to come in.”

Twenty clenches his jaw, nods. There’s a heavy lock on the door, and he opens that first; and then, very carefully, he slides the two huge bolts out of their places.

As soon as the door creaks open, there’s a burst of blue light from inside the room, and a loud noise - the same screeching Dean remembers from back in the day, a thing that makes his ears bleed and his entire body sing a song of raw panic and submission. As Twenty collapses on the floor, his arms around his head, Dean steps over him and opens the door wider. 

The place is _huge_ \- way bigger than the room he’s seen upstairs, easily eighty feet, its curved ceiling disappearing high into the darkness, and it’s full of - of - Dean can’t exactly see it - it’s like blue wind, or maybe flames - something that vibrates and shakes and roars like a wild animal locked in a cage, something -

“Shut _up_ ,” he yells, taking a step inside the room, and the noise stops, and the swirling wind quiets down, resolves itself on a lonely figure sitting down on the floor.

It’s - it’s a _child_ , a young girl, and her back is to Dean, but -

“Cas?” Dean calls, his heart hammering inside his chest.

Without moving one inch, the child turns her head almost all the way around, like they’re in some goddamn _Exorcist_ movie, and there, looking straight at Dean, is Claire Novak’s open face.

“You came,” she says, but her voice doesn’t match her age - somehow, that’s Claire’s voice as Dean remembers it - her twenty-year-old voice - but this kid, she’s -

And Dean wants to believe this is the right timeline or whatever, and Cas was forced to jump inside a random kid ‘cause his vessel was damaged, but as soon as the child speaks, he knows - he fucking _knows_ \- this is not Cas.

This is not - not the person he knows.

He simply stares for a second, pushing against a solid wave of disappointment and fear and bitterness, and the child speaks again.

“Your arrival was long foretold,” she says, echoing the blind woman’s bizarre welcome.

“You - you know me?” Dean asks, still rooted to the spot.

Dimly, he hears Twenty get to his feet behind him.

“I am the seraph Castiel. You are Dean Winchester. In some pockets of what humans call the space-time continuum, we are friends.”

Now that Dean’s eyes are getting used to the gloom again, he’s starting to see what’s wrong with this place. He’s not exactly focused on it, because there’s a weight against his lungs that makes it difficult to even breathe, but he’s been at this for so long it’s second nature to him, and he can’t turn it off. 

The walls are heavily damaged.

There are scorch marks in the spaces between the hand-carved sigils - hundreds of them, like someone’s been firing a rocket launcher, or trying to claw their way out.

And there are chains - big, shiny things covered in symbols Dean’s never seen before, snaking from the four corners of the room all the way to the little girl sitting in the middle of it, prim and clean and terrifyingly normal in a blue summer dress. 

“In others yet, we are lovers,” the child adds, and Dean takes a step back, his stomach heavy and messy inside his belly, because -

Because he _knows_ it, okay? He’s not an idiot. He knows damn well Cas’ not - he’s not Jimmy and he’s not a he, either - sure - Dean understands that Cas is - something else - fucking light, or - fire - whatever - the point is, it’s much _easier_ to just fucking shelve that and live their lives as if Cas were - just Cas. And Dean is coming to accept that what he loves, well - that’s who Cas is on the inside, or some hippy shit like that - his real self, that is, and not Jimmy’s blue eyes and Jimmy’s sharp as glass profile and his fucking graceful, strong hands, but still -

“And one time, I killed you. I ran you through with the big sword of Altair, and you bled to death on a forest floor,” the child says, serenely, and Dean brings his closed fist up to his mouth. 

“What - what’s wrong with him?” he half growls, glancing back at the terrified kid behind him. “Why are you keeping him here?”

Twenty’s lips move in some silent prayer, and Dean wants to punch him in the face.

“ _Tell_ me,” he hisses, just as the child turns her head from them - and now she looks - fuck, Dean wants to go there and give her a hug, because it’s a small child, okay, a six-year-old chained to the fucking floor in an underground prison and Dean can’t -

“She went mad,” Twenty finally mumbles. “She - showed up after a battle, and -”

Dean doesn’t know how or why, but he can fucking _see_ it - a plain of corpses, the earth drenched with the black blood of demons, and Claire walking right in the middle of it, her blue dress eerily untouched by even a drop of gore.

“She told us things. She helped. I wasn’t there, I don’t know any more than that - I swear,” Twenty adds, hurriedly. “And then - she disappeared for a while, and when she came back, she was - in bad shape. Some say she’s been tortured in Heaven, others that Lucifer had her.”

It’s useless to whisper, they both know as much, and yet, Dean finds himself dropping his voice as well.

“And then?”

“Our diviner tried to heal her, but she was never quite right after that. She - loses control, sometimes. People were hurt, and that’s why she asked - she wanted -”

“She _asked_?” Dean says, in disbelief. “And you -”

“She _wanted_ to be here,” the kid says, desperately, edging away from Dean’s rage. “She told us to -”

“She’s a goddamn _child_ ,” Dean roars, and there’s a metallic noise to his right as - as Cas stands up, takes one step towards him.

“You’re a kind man, Dean Winchester, but where I am makes no difference to Claire. She’s happy, now. Drawing. Waiting for her parents to come home.”

Dean says nothing.

“Although,” Cas adds, cocking his head to one side, only just, and destroying whatever was left of Dean’s heart in the process, “that’s not exactly what you meant, is it?”

“I -”

Dean isn’t sure of what he meant, and he’s not about to tell an unhinged seraph that yeah, whatever, he does sometimes think of Cas ( _his_ Cas, and fuck it) as a child, because goddammit, look at all the noble, useless, stupid-ass decisions he makes on any given day - no, he can’t do that, can he, ‘cause he’s let it slip a couple of times over the years, and the fucking _hurt_ look in Cas’ eyes afterwards - yeah. And he should be damn careful, too, ‘cause this version of Cas - if Twenty is right, she could fry them both just for -

“I will not hurt you, Dean.”

She takes another step forward, gracefully, tensing her chain almost to its full length, and Dean finds himself stepping forward too, because they’re still standing about twenty feet apart, and something inside him wants to _see_ Cas, wants to make sure he’s not been harmed, and it’s easy, now, to ignore what Twenty just said, because there’s no visible damage - as Dean moves closer, he sees that this is simply - Claire, her fair hair held back by a headband, her tiny ballerinas showing only the faintest stain of grass. 

There’s rabbits on them, and Dean wants very much to cry.

 _This is not on me_ , he thinks, furiously, closing his hands into fists. He looks away from the child, then, remembers this world is nothing to him, and his job is to find his mother - to find Cas - and get the hell out.

But most of all, Dean’s trying to keep the fuck away from another thought - that so far, he hasn’t seen a good ending for Cas, because look at this child - and the guy Lucifer stabbed - and - _and_ \- 

Truth is, Dean still dreams about that guy he met in Chitaqua from time to time, and he always wakes up in a blind panic, both aroused by the obvious lust in Cas’ eyes and panicked by how that version of him had been a complete reversal of everything Cas is. _I like past you_ , the guy had said, and Dean’s found himself thinking about that more than once - he’d stop and lean against a door and watch Cas doing research at the map table and just wonder -

But _like_ , of course, is a meaningless word, and as for the _other_ thing Cas had implied in that vision - yeah, his Cas’ not wired like that.

(Chances are, he doesn’t think about it at all, and he’d be confused - disgusted - if Dean - if -)

“You can kiss me if you want to,” the child says, with a curious, friendly smile.

“What? _No_!”

“Or you can lie,” Cas obliges, as if it doesn’t matter to him - to her - one way or another, and maybe she’s serious - maybe she can see Dean’s desperate, pathetic _need_ as she would water in a glass, and still not get that - _fuck_ \- it’s not the same, okay? Because this is not the person Dean knows, and even if she were, there’s no _way_ Dean can get past - 

_Fuck_. This is a _child_ , for Chrissakes.

“I -” 

There are no words for it. None.

“As you wish. Don’t worry - I won’t hold it against you, Dean. Your soul is too -” Cas closes her eyes, lifts her head up, the blond hair glinting in the faint light; she seems to - sniff the air, then, and there’s almost a predatory thing on her face now, something that clashes against the full childhood of Claire’s face and makes Dean’s stomach turn. “You are pure, and we are connected, you and I.”

“Uh -”

“I won’t hurt you.”

Dean looks away as he feels Cas’ full attention on him again. It’s very nearly solid, this interest she has in him, and the fact she seems to know who he is even if they’ve never met - the fact she knows about the other worlds, and what goes down in them ( _In others yet, we are lovers._ ) - yeah, that’s unsettling.

“Listen, I know you’re not - you’re - but can I - help you?” he asks, his eyes passing over the blood-red warding on the walls.

Cas shakes her head.

“You cannot, and you should not waste your time with me. You do not have much of it left.”

Dean breathes out.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s not here, you know. The one you seek,” Cas says, ignoring his question, and Dean - he’d been holding on to some faint hope, because he’d thought, fuck, if Bobby and the others hadn’t seen Lucifer, maybe there was a chance -

But deep down, he’d known.

Hell, he’d known the moment Cas had disappeared with Kelly so Jack could be born with his full powers that this would end badly, that he would likely never see Cas again.

“I do not know if he’s dead or alive,” the child adds, forestalling Dean’s next question. “But if he is, you’re the only one who can find him.”

“What?”

“The only one.”

There’s something twisted in that, something bitter and black on Dean’s tongue, because all this talk of him and Cas together, meeting each other in every universe or some bullshit - that’s making him feel _worse_ , not better. He’s poison, and he doesn’t deserve - look at what fucking _happens_ to the people closest to him. Sam’s the only one who’s made it through, and at what cost? And Cas - Cas should have a better fucking destiny than this. Somewhere, at least. In some place where Dean can’t come up to him and turn his entire life into shit and blood and desperation - ‘cause Dean’s got eyes, okay, and he can see plenty well what being half and half had been doing to Cas - he knows that even in the Bunker, Cas is lonely - that he and Sam are not - that he’s not fucking _enough_ , that he doesn’t _deserve_ \- 

Dean checks his weapons again, unaware he’s even doing it. As he takes a small step forward, he feels his gun, his knives, the comforting weight of the brass knuckles. It’s a habit, and something to do when he wants to punch a wall, and can’t.

He won’t lose control.

He can’t. 

“I don’t know how,” he says, as steadily as he can, and Cas’ smile widens.

“Gabriel does. He may come, if you ask him nicely.”

 _Fuck_.

“Gabriel? Is he - is he _fighting_?” Dean asks, and he’s almost afraid to learn the answer to that.

“Or he may answer your brother,” Cas adds, ignoring Dean’s question once more. And then she lifts her head again, as if she’s - searching for something, looking beyond the ruined walls of her cell. “Yes, I think he might. There’s something - intriguing - in how Sam smells. A touch of the sacred, perhaps.”

“It’s a Nephilim,” Dean finds himself saying, and Cas laughs in delight - the same spontaneous, immediately suppressed laughter they can sometimes force out of Claire, and she’s always careful to act very grown-up afterwards, as if she considers laughing a childish behavior that will set her back in some way.

“A _Nephilim_! You’re full of surprises, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head.

“I could do without them,” he mutters, and next, he feels a kind of - electricity in the air, like the exhilarating, oppressing weight you have before big storms.

“A day may come when you’ll regret those words,” Cas says; and then he adds, “Please go now. And don’t come back here again.”

“What? Why?”

“There is no time. There won’t be any time.”

“What?”

“Dean, _go_.” 

That is an order, and Dean starts to walk away; after a few steps, though, he turns back, kneels on the concrete floor and hugs Cas - not as he would a child, because he knows, on some level, that this is not a child, and his hug is fierce and desperate and full of things he doesn’t know how to say.

“You _call_ ,” he says, “if you need anything. Okay?”

They both know that’s not how it works, that there’s nothing here Dean can fix, but Cas lets him have this and nods against Dean’s shoulder.

“I will. Thank you, Dean. You will be alright. We both will.”

As he stands up, Dean wipes his face angrily, turns around and hurries to the door, careful not to step on the chain that’s right on his way.

“Let’s go,” he snaps, as he catches sight of Twenty cowering behind the open door, and he doesn’t want to look back, okay?, he fucking _doesn’t_ , because seeing Claire in this cell - hell, knowing that _Cas_ is in there, that’s he’s hurt and alone and going out of his fucking mind - fuck, that’s too much, and Dean doesn’t want to see it, wishes there was some way to scrub the past twenty minutes off his mind, because he can’t _take_ it, and he’s _done_ , and - _and_ -

But just as the door closes, Dean does looks back; he sees the child flicker and change into a grown man - Cas, and his back is to him now, but Dean would know him anywhere, with his goddamn spiky hair and the crumpled trenchcoat. His head’s tilted upwards, and as Dean follows his gaze automatically, he sees a kite - a red thing which flies, impossibly, high over Cas’ head, as if supported by a strong, quiet wind. And Dean - Dean knows then that this is for _him_ \- that this Cas knows what Jimmy looks like, of course she does, and she’s seen Dean’s memories, or some of them, anyway, and what she’s doing now is - that’s not a message, maybe, but an offer of some kind of comfort. A flicker of what might have been. 

_You have a good heart_ , Cas says inside his head, using Jimmy’s voice. _You should not be afraid to let it show._

Dean blinks, and Cas is Claire again.

The door clangs shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I thought it'd be interesting _not_ to write the AU!Cas we all want to see (you know, the sassy bastard with the eyeliner and the wings tattoo and the katana who flirts Dean into oblivion) and now I want to die.  
>  Seriously - sorry. You guys didn't deserve this.


	15. A Length of Rope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I assume you all remember this one, but just in case - “Freedom is a length of rope. God wants you to hang yourself with it.”

Cas is sharply, brutally conscious of Dean moving behind him - of Dean covering his head to protect it from the flying glass as he crawls back towards the kitchen and wonders, much too loud and much too bright, if there’s anything in there he can use against an angel. There’s a blackness, a raw panic to him too, because he knows full well that even if he had access to his weapons - which he doesn’t: all he keeps in the house are ordinary knives and a box of tools he can’t use - well - nothing in there would truly save him. Holy Oil, of course, can be used to slow down angels, even trap them, but traps need to be set in advance; and as for Cas’ blade, that’s out of his hands now - Bobby has it, Dean gave it to him for studying and safekeeping, and Bobby is not here, _goddammit_ , Bobby -

It’s difficult to wade out of such complex, terrified thoughts, and Cas isn’t truly relishing the privacy of his own mind, because he’s scared too. He’s still too weak to fight, and if this is an enemy, there is nothing stopping them from tearing Dean’s house down, from -

“Cassie?” the woman now standing in front of him asks him, her eyes wide with a desperate sort of disbelief. “Is that really you?”

Dean stops moving and sits back against the couch, hidden from view, but Cas barely hears him. His attention is focused on the person in front of him - on the way her human form _flickers_ , as Sam had put it when Cas had tried to explain, exposing the true nature of the angel inside it.

“Balthazar?”

It can’t be, and yet - this is someone who’s fought side by side with Cas for millions of years, and the hue of his Grace is as familiar to Cas as that of his own.

(Except this is not Balthazar, is it?

Because Balthazar is dead.

Because Cas killed him.)

Cas averts his eyes, gets a wood splinter out of his cheek. He hears Balthazar curse in Enochian, the glass of the closest photograph cracking at sounds that aren’t meant to be pronounced in front of humans.

“How is this _possible_?” Balthazar says next, and there’s awe in his voice as he steps closer to Cas, the elegant heels his vessel is wearing now in Cas’ range of vision. “Cassie?”

“I’m not - I’m,” Cas starts, swallowing the guilt surging inside his mouth like poison, but there’s no need to add anything further.

Balthazar raises his - her hand, cups his chin, focusing Cas’ eyes on herself again; and her beautiful, symmetrical face blooms in surprise.

“There was a _convergence_?” she says, disappointment shining through her words like pure light. “How could I not hear that?”

As Cas watches, unable to speak, she cocks her head to the side and smiles.

“Of course, there’s that, _chérie_ ,” he admits, in a quiet conversation with the woman he’s possessing. “We were - distracted.” 

She laughs, then, probably at some joke or memory Cas cannot hear, and pats Cas’ cheek fondly before advancing into the room, sidestepping Cas completely.

“So, what are you doing here? No, don’t tell me: a secret mission. A swashbuckling adventure, a quest for treasure and lost love.”

Before Cas can say anything to that, Balthazar has shaken off her surprise, and finally turned her attention to Dean.

“Ah! And who is that?” she says, almost triumphantly. “Come, let us see you, _mon petit trilobite_.”

“I - I tripped,” Cas tries to explain, because Dean’s looking very white as he gets to his feet, and Cas needs to get Balthazar out of here before -

(He doesn’t know what could happen, exactly, but Balthazar could be capricious and unpredictable under the best circumstances, and this hardly qualifies as that.)

“I think you mean, you _fell_.” Balthazar shrugs without looking back, keeps moving towards Dean with that offhand, feline loping Cas remembers so well. “And brother, that’s one pretty face to fall for.”

Dean stands his ground, but his eyes flicker to Cas’ for a second, as if asking permission to speak.

Cas nods.

“ _Alors_ , what is your -”

There is a kind of wind rattling the room’s furniture as Balthazar’s control slips for a second; Dean stiffens, and Cas starts forward, knowing full well there’s nothing he can really do.

“You’re - _him_ ,” Balthazar finally whispers; and Cas’ fear turns to annoyance when Balthazar closes the distance between herself and Dean and presses both hands to his chest and arms, as if testing the muscles under the fabric of his clothes. “ _Mon Dieu_ , I heard you were special, but you - you’re something else indeed.”

“Just tell me that wasn’t you with Hawkeye,” Dean says, nonsensically. “I like those movies, and I don’t want a reason to stop watching ‘em.”

Balthazar laughs and does something that makes Dean half blush before stepping back.

“No worries there. I’m not much of an actor, I’m afraid.”

“What is going on?” Cas asks, a bit too loudly, and Dean stares at him, opens his arms by his sides.

“You for real?” he asks, and his exasperation is so immediately familiar a wave of longing pierces Cas from side to side.

“I do believe I’m real, yes,” he snaps, angry at himself for being so weak, and Balthazar smiles at him fondly.

“That’s - that’s - dude, how can you not _know_ Black Widow?”

“What?”

“That’s the _Avengers_ chick,” Dean forces out, in a strangled whisper, behind Balthazar’s back. “ _Dude_.”

Cas blinks, finally realizes why Balthazar’s form looked vaguely familiar. In his world, of course, Dean would know Léa Hélène Seydoux, born in Passy on the first of July of 1985 from Henri Seydoux and Valérie Schlumberger, as the ‘Bond chick’. Cas remembers some kind of discussion the brothers had after _Spectre_ , specifically on the credibility of the car chase through Rome. It had been a loud and happy affair, lengthy sentences and _Sam, come on_ s and _I’m just saying_ s bookending a meal of hot pizza and beer. Cas had sat in the chair closest to Dean, had nursed a bottle of El Sol while picking off the occasional olive from Dean’s slices. 

They had been worried, of course, Amara’s threat looming large on the horizon, but it had been a good evening. A moment of peace and laughter.

And this universe is bound to be different, and Cas should pay attention to it, because here - here, Dean still bears the scars Michael left on him, and Sam is lost where Cas can’t see him, and Bobby and Jo and Balthazar are alive and Léa Seydoux starred as Black Widow - Cas knows enough about the character to know she’s one of Dean’s favorite, and, again, he has to quiet down the sneaky sense of jealousy that’s been haunting him since he first stepped in this house. 

“ _Americans_ ,” Balthazar sighs, neatly avoiding a toy truck on the floor. “I worked with Claude Chabrol - or, whatever, she did - and yet this is what they’re interested in: a latex-clad assassin sleeping around with men in tights.”

“Hey, she’s not sleeping around at all,” Dean calls, but Balthazar is no longer interested in the conversation.

“Let’s step outside, _esiasch_ ,” she says; and before Cas can object to that, they’re both flying, and the feeling - the flutter of wings and the cold air on his face and the blurred world around him - is so right, so very _missed_ , that Cas could cry.

“Don’t worry. I’m not letting you fall,” Balthazar says, almost playfully, and what she’s saying is, she knows the true reason of Cas’ sudden silence - she’s seen Cas’ wings - but won’t comment further on them, because that’s Cas’ story to tell and Cas’ pain to share - or not.

(It seems that in every iteration of himself, Balthazar is destined to be the one who understands Cas the best, and that is comforting when it shouldn’t be.)

They land in a music store - a tiny place, Cas sees as he inspects the room, like he’s watched Dean do so many times, for exit points and weapons.

There are none, of course. The room is small, its walls hidden by floor-to-ceiling shelves holding hundreds and hundreds of old-fashioned vinyl records. Cas moves to the small table (a black cash register on the left, a notebbok next to it) so he can look outside the windows.

(A quiet, deserted street. One parked car, no people. A traffic light which changes to red.)

“I thought it was over,” Balthazar says, moving to the only armchair and sitting down.

“You thought what was over?” Cas says, even though he knows what Balthazar means.

“The whole - unpleasantness, of course.”

“Unpleasantness?”

“The Apocalypse. The defeat of the Serpent. The end of the world.” Balthazar crosses her legs, looks up at Cas. “You know, you may not be from here, but you’re exactly the same.”

Cas says nothing.

He doesn’t remember everything that happened in his war against Raphael, because his true self has been taken apart and reshaped and tortured so many times since then that some memories seem to be simply - lost, and Lucifer walking around in his mind - yes, that had been a further source of disorder and distraction, but this - _this_ , Cas remembers.

Balthazar had been his oldest friend, the first being for whom Cas had experienced something he’d later understood to be affection, and despite that -

“So why are you bothering the Righteous Man? I thought Mom and Dad left very specific orders.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cas says, turning his eyes to the street. Something about its stillness is disturbing him. It’s the middle of the day, after all.

Balthazar sighs.

“I mean him no harm, brother. I mean no harm to anyone.” She stops, and, again, there is a faint noise as her control of herself lapses. “You think it’s _fun_ , being the last angel on Earth? Just humor me, will you? Give me something to think about other than -”

She never finishes her sentence, but the weight in her voice makes Cas look at her again.

“You - you’re here _alone_? You chose to _stay_?”

“Chose! You know how it is up there - I wanted no part of it.”

“I see. But surely -” Cas can’t exactly put it into words, because he simply can’t imagine a life like the one he’s been living over the last few days - a life of complete silence, of the music of Heaven - of the warmth of his Father’s love - being utterly taken from him.

It would be -

Cas has been shut out of Heaven before and Sam and Dean, of course, have made it bearable, but at the same time -

Balthazar shakes her head.

There is nothing either of them can say.

A moment of silence, and then -

“I even tried giving up my Grace, you know? But it didn’t work.”

“ _What_?” Cas can’t hide (from himself, at least; Dean is a different matter) that he considered doing the same, more than once, but it’s still shocking to hear this forbidden thought put into words. 

(He remembers what had been in Dean’s eyes when he’d finally found him in April’s apartment - the sheer relief that Cas had survived, followed by a stab of fear, immediately silenced, because Cas - Cas was _mortal_ now. He’d been hurt and mutilated and separated from his truest self, and one day, he would die.)

Balthazar misunderstands his tone, or pretends to.

“I guess a theologian would say,” she replies, airily, “that Grace is love, and you can’t stop being loved. It’s simply not how it works.”

Cas glances at the empty street again.

“I was human once,” he counters, in a low voice.

“Really? For how long?”

“That - that’s immaterial.”

Balthazar snorts - probably a gesture she picked up from another vessel, because it sits strangely with this woman’s refined appearance.

“As I _said_ , you can’t force people to stop loving you. Especially not Dad.”

Cas is about to say he _met_ God, and isn’t so sure anymore about what He does and what He thinks about, and if He even cares about anything other than pulp novels and cat blogs, but for some reason he can’t get it out. It would seem like bragging, in a way, and he’s not keen to share with Balthazar any of what happened to him after Cas had killed him, because no matter how unpleasant most of those events had been, well - Balthazar should have been there - should have been given a choice to experience them as well, and Cas had taken that away from him.

“I meant what I said before,” he says instead. “I’m not here for Dean Winchester. It was - an accident.”

“I see,” Balthazar says, in an overly sympathetic voice, as if she’s indulging Cas.

There’s a siren in the distance, and someone shouting through a bullhorn. They’re too far away to hear what they’re saying.

“And next, you’ll tell me whatever it is you’re doing in that other world is perfectly respectable, am I right? Coloring inside the lines, fighting on your brothers’ side, refusing to compromise yourself to further the interests of a race of mudfish?”

Cas can’t answer that. He seems to remember a time when he didn’t have to make a choice between his orders and what was right, but maybe it’s wishful thinking. It’s possible that all those memories he has of a life before humans, a life when he was happy to fulfill his mission, have been implanted _a posteriori_. Crowley had told him enough of Naomi’s techniques to make that perfectly plausible.

On the other hand, there is still a chance he’s reading this all wrong. 

He’s been convinced, for years now, that helping Dean was worth it, but what if his brothers had understood something he still hasn’t? What if rescuing Dean from Hell - putting his hand on Dean, reshaping Dean’s heart and brain and soul - had truly corrupted something deep inside him? His rational thinking, his moral values? From assuming divine powers to giving Sam the tools to free the Darkness, he’s certainly done more than enough to make him doubt of his own sanity.

Hannah had tried to warn him, more than once, and Cas had wanted to trust her judgement, but -

But.

A memory of Dean flares inside him, colorful and loud, and Cas draws a deep breath when he doesn’t need to breathe at all, because this - _this_ is the man he chose to Fall for, and he’s so imperfectly complete and _necessary_ Cas can only stand there and take it - this is Dean on a regular Tuesday morning, happy and relaxed, placing some kind of breakfast in front of Sam, making his brother snort in unwilling laughter before turning back and sauntering over to Cas himself, stopping a bit too close to him, smiling a bit too wide. _And what it’s gonna be for you, sunshine? Coffee and glitter glue?_

Cas hadn’t known how to answer that joke back then, but now he’s grateful for this particular moment and how it replays in his mind - for Dean coming closer still, his hair sticking up every which way, his breath smelling faintly of toothpaste and bacon - for Dean fixing Cas’ tie, making some kind of comment on how Cas was letting himself go, because _Look at you in shirtsleeves, not long before you forget to shave, buddy_ , and there had been a glint in his eyes, then - Cas had seen Dean remembering a different version of him, one Zachariah had created and Cas was not privy to - he’d caught Dean’s faint blush before Dean had patted his cheek, turned away again, _Last call for coffee_ , he’d called, loud enough that Sam could hear them from the Map Room, and that had been it.

There are countless works of art, countless scientific studies, detailing how you can lose your head when you’re in love; and yet, some stubborn part of Cas refuses to admit that it could happen to him.

(Because he’s not human, perhaps. Because he can’t -)

No, he _has_ to believe his choices were rational, that he’s been helping Dean more than he’s hurt him - that once the Earth is no longer in danger, he’ll be able to take a step back and let the Winchesters get on with their ordinary human lives, but -

But. 

“Do you remember Soxacen?” Balthazar asks, out of nowhere, and Cas digs his fingers into the wood of the table, shakes his thoughts off like the autumn wind does yellow leaves. “Oh - of course you don’t. It wasn’t you.” 

Balthazar stops, but it’s perfectly clear that, wherever he’s going with this, he’s not done.

“He was your first and last vessel on this side. A K’iche’ prince, heir to the land of the many trees.”

Cas is almost sure he was never stationed in Central America. He hopes this is not a person he forgot, but simply what Balthazar is describing it as: events that never happened, or not to him. 

“I liked him, why not. He was brave, but not completely idiotic, and he smelled _good_. In fact, I was even open to the possibility -”

“Balthazar, that is not -”

“- _appropriate_ , yes, that’s what you said at the time. My vessel lived five thousands miles away, it would have been dangerous, cross-cultural contamination, historical inconsistencies, _quel blabla_. Spare me.”

“I’m sure there’s a point to this?” Cas asks, and it comes out much harsher than he’d meant it, but Balthazar seems delighted by his rudeness.

“Indeed there is. My _point_ is, something happens to you when you touch a human, Cassie. Something - not so good. See, most of us find it easy, pleasant or unpleasant, or whatever else, but you - you _lose_ yourself in them.”

“That’s not true,” Cas lies, but Balthazar ignores him.

“You developed such an _obsession_ with Soxacen, _esiasch_ , and here is the thing - I believe he loved you too, in his human way, but when he died - he was healed of you, after a time. Death will do that to you. And Heaven, and humanity itself,” he adds, sounding suddenly bitter, “because this is what humans _are_. This is how they’re different from us. They are - changeable. They are clouds under our sky of fixed stars. They _overcome_ , Cassie, and we -”

Another siren, and Balthazar sits up straighter, brushes an invisible lock of hair from her face, now slightly flushed, because this was supposed to be some sort of lesson for Cas, but he and Balthazar - they’re not so different, despite what others had probably assumed.

“I -”

“You got _restless_ without him,” Balthazar adds, almost in anger. “It made you empty-eyed and stupid and rash, and that’s how you died - because you took to charging into battle uncaring of true death. Maybe even longing for it.” 

“ _Esiasch_ ,” Cas whispers, and he’s not sure if he should apologize.

“So you got what you wanted, and I - I _miss_ you. I’ve been missing you for _centuries_ now.” Balthazar stands up, moves to the window, seems to test its solidity with a perfectly manicured nail. “But who cares about little old me, _n’est-ce pas_? Who _cares_?”

“Brother, I don’t - I don’t _deserve_ you grieving for me, I -”

“I’m not _grieving_ for you - get over yourself - I’m -”

“- if you _knew_ what -”

“I just said I don’t _care_ -”

“I’m _poison_!” Cas snaps, silencing her, and Balthazar turns around, looks at him. “I betrayed Heaven, I conspired to trap Michael - Balthazar, I killed Raphael. I let Lucifer use me, and I -”

“You killed _Raphael_?”

“And you. I killed _you_.”

“How on _Earth_ did you manage to off that wanker?”

Cas stares at her. It’s like the earlier moment of self-pity and anger had evaporated - Balthazar is intrigued now, almost happy.

“I - I swallowed the souls in Purgatory,” Cas explains, warily, and Balthazar laughs out loud.

“ _Bordel_! You were always much more of a drama queen than I ever was, Cassie.”

“But I -”

“Yes, you killed me, I heard you the first time. That’s a relief, you know?”

“ _What_?”

“Centuries spent wallowing in guilt because I could not save you, and it turns out, there was a cosmic balance to it all along.”

It’s a peculiar way of looking at it, but, then again, Balthazar always was a peculiar being. Cas takes a step closer to him, shakes his head.

“I miss you too,” he admits, in a very low voice, and even though he desperately wanted it, he’s still surprised by the sudden, strong hug as Balthazar clings to him, her vessel’s perfume sweet and buttery against his nose.

“Remember when we stole Michael’s helmet? The one those Jericho goldsmiths had made for him?” she says, shaking with laughter.

“You mean, _you_ stole,” Cas corrects her, and he wonders, as he always does, why he doesn’t hug people more often. There is a comfort to it, a quiet joy that snakes inside him, makes him feel safe in a way most other human gestures don’t.

“That’s debatable,” Balthazar smiles, and she’s about to add something else, probably to the effect that it’s good, really, to have a few common memories, when a loud noise makes them break apart - Cas barely has the time to see a car on the street outside, going a thousand miles a minute and losing control, heading straight for where they’re standing, when Balthazar grips his arm and -

(A crash as the little shop is destroyed - a sound of broken glass and torn metal -)

\- Cas looks down at the scene from a completely different standpoint - a dingy flat on the second floor of the building opposite the accident -

“What is going on?”

“Ah, yes, I’d almost forgotten this -”

“Shouldn’t we help?”

“Just wait,” Balthazar says, and they both watch - there are more people out there now, one complex contraption moving on what Cas had assumed where tramway rails, and cameras, and -

“Wait. This is not real,” he says, wonderingly, as a man with a baseball cap moves around the scene, calls out to a microphone operator.

“Fiction _is_ real, Cassie. More so than actual reality, which, as we know, is a subjective experience dictated by our failing and imperfect senses.” 

“But -”

“Watch,” Balthazar says, pointing to the ruined car, and Cas stares as the mangled door is kicked outwards and - Jo Harvelle emerges from the car, blond ponytail swishing behind her head, a look of pure exhilaration on her face.

“ _How_ -”

Because there is no mistaking her. This is Jo as Cas remembers her, and, more importantly, as _Dean_ knows her - a grown woman now, tough as nails and yet with a profound sweetness to her - even from up here, Cas can see it all on her face - a line of grief, and a deeper line of love - for her child, for Dean, for life itself. 

“Can you smell Dean Winchester on her?” Balthazar says, from his right, and Cas blinks.

The truth is, he’s awed and overwhelmed and not completely sure as to what is going on here.

“That’s not the right word,” he says, quietly, and again, Balthazar snorts. “But, yes.”

“I’ve been alone for a while, Cassie. I hope you can forgive me the occasional lapse in Enochian vocabulary.”

“I think it’s -” Cas starts, and he’s about to switch to Enochian when Balthazar reaches forward, presses two fingers to his lips.

“ _Chut_. Don’t make me sad, now. You’ll be gone soon, and who will speak it to me then? Better I try to forget I ever knew it.”

Cas wants to deny this, but he can’t.

“And what will you do?” he says instead, when Balthazar lets her hand fall. “Is this arrangement - permanent?”

Balthazar glances outside, to where Jo is now drinking some water and joking with a cameraman as another actress, dressed exactly in the same way she is, is climbing into the destroyed car.

“Ah, unfortunately, it is not meant to be - Mademoiselle Seydoux is currently filming something about submarines, and I was never a fan of movies set at sea.”

Cas smiles.

“I know that, yes. What you did with the Titanic - it drove Dean and Sam crazy.”

“Dean and _Sam_ \- of course, there’s the brother as well,” Balthazar muses, almost to himself, and Cas nods and looks away. 

It’s strange to be reminded he’s not home - that in this world, angels are not familiar with Sam and Dean and that this lack of knowledge is mutual. Strange, and sad. He hadn’t taken a close interest in the matter, but he still knows Balthazar had been fond of Sam and Dean both, in his own way.

And Bobby - Cas had chanced upon a book last year, in his Netflix period, as he moved listlessly around the Bunker, and he’d recognized Bobby’s neat writing in what seemed to be a rudimentary Enochian vocabulary. Some notes about Balthazar as well, a symbol he'd taught them behind Cas' back. But Cas had helped with that project as well, and always assumed Bobby had stopped working on it, so finding it after all that time had been - proof, perhaps, that Cas had done something good in his past; that he’d helped.

“You should bring me back,” he says, finally, and Balthazar nods.

“I sensed you were curious about her,” she says, as Jo moves to inspect the car and chats with that other woman now sitting behind the wheel - they’re so similar it’s unsettling. “But now I see you more clearly, I understand why I brought you here.”

Cas says nothing.

“You needed to _see_ her, Cassie. It’s time you accept that a bond between humans - the kind of love they can feel for each other - that outweighs any other consideration.”

Jo laughs, makes a gesture in apology as her phone rings, and just by seeing the expression on her face as she answers, Cas knows Dean is on the other side of that call.

“I want you to be safe. And wherever _he_ is, I’m sure he feels the same,” Balthazar adds, and then she takes Cas’ hand, and they’re gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to give Balthazar a hint of Frenchitude because of REASONS, and I like Léa Seydoux - no offense to Scarlett Johansson, but she would have been a great Black Widow imo. Also, she’s currently filming a movie about the Kursk tragedy, and it’s one of those things - I remember being traumatized when that happened, but of course I’ll go and see the movie so I can be traumatized again, because this seems to be our setting as humans. I just hope it’s going to be good, because - yeah.  
> (Sadly, though, she never worked with Claude Chabrol.)
> 
> Translation of French terms
> 
> _chérie_ \- dear  
>  _mon petit trilobite_ \- my little trilobite (and, yes, I'm about twelve because there's a cock joke in there I simply couldn't resist)  
>  _alors_ \- so  
>  _mon Dieu_ \- my God  
>  _quel blabla_ \- what drivel  
>  _n'est-ce pas?_ \- right?  
>  _bordel!_ \- fuck!  
>  _chut_ \- hush
> 
> Oh, and _esiasch_ is apparently Enochian for 'brother'.


	16. Descensus Averno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Sorry I was late in posting this - I've been very busy over the last few weeks. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter, and, again, I'd like to remind you of the fact that this fic is tagged M for a reason. Dean is not in a good place, and as it turns out, that was canon in the actual show as well, but still - watch out for some very bad thoughts and general misery.

“So, you don’t know what’s going on? At all?” Dean pushes his pie around with his fork. It’s some deep frozen shit, hardly a treat, but that’s the least of his worries right now.

“If someone knows, they sure ain’t telling me,” the woman answers. “More soda, sweetie?”

Dean looks up at her, manages a smile. What he really wants is booze - hell, he’d take anything right now, down to bad beer and oven cleaner, but there’s no way to say that, is there, because this seems the kind of woman who’d take offense if Dean refused a second can of lukewarm Fanta - it’s all there, in her lined face and severe bun and ruined hands - this is likely someone who’s worked in school cafeterias her whole life and won’t take any nonsense from anyone.

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

She leaves him alone after that, disappearing into yet another room of this godforsaken place to ‘do inventory’, as she explains, and the determined normality she puts into her words and actions makes Dean even more nostalgic for his own world, because what he’s heard about this one so far - yeah.

According to Dorothy, now off somewhere counting how many boxes of beef jerky stand between the Rebel Alliance and death by starvation, this war is not a war at all. It had started like it had back home - with more and more bizarre shit as the seals were broken and Lucifer came closer and closer, and then - then it’d gotten _worse_. Earthquakes that had flattened entire cities, hurricanes and tsunamis which took care of who was left, and then, about two years ago, when things had started to look up a bit, a shitty, mysterious illness someone at CDC is still trying to pin down. Or so the radio says. And now the mist and the clouds. _It’s been weeks_ , Dorothy had said, placing that first can of Fanta in front of Dean, _and even those farmers who’d managed to keep going despite everything - well, it’s no use now, is it?_

Truth is, they’re all running out of food and clean water and hope, and news programs are growing more unreliable by the day (it’s the same voice every evening, mostly, a quiet man ‘coming to you from Washington, D.C.’, and some say those are pre-recorded messages and everyone on the outside - they’re all dead), but there are still things everybody seems to be sure about: that it’s the same everywhere, that communication over the Atlantic and the Pacific has broken down, and also - Dorothy had pretended to look away, then, had started scrubbing at a glass that didn’t need cleaning at all - also there are people whispering about some kind of prophecy - saying that all of this, the bad weather, the pestilence, even those rumors of angels and demons (‘cause there are hunters, sure, who know a bit more about the whole mess, but actually _seeing_ one of those things - nobody seems to live long enough to know what those monsters are, exactly, or how to fight them) - well, it all has to do with those who will come: two strangers from a foreign land. Dean had shifted in his seat at that and Dorothy had frowned at him, annoyed at herself for staring, before turning around and getting his pie out of the microwave.

 _And these guys_ , Dean had asked, _they’ll - make things better?_

 _That’s what some say_ , Dorothy had replied, and there had been a sentence missing there, something Dean didn’t want to hear, right, ‘cause what had fake Bobby said? That it was all their fault, his and Sammy’s, and that went to show there were two versions of the story, and they should be very careful around these people.

(And where _is_ Sam, exactly? God, it’s been -)

 _So you don’t know where they are? Lucifer and Michael?_ Dean had asked, almost afraid to hear the answer, and the woman had shrugged. 

_The Diviner says this is something else_ , she offered, after a while. _That the weather’s got nothing to do with either of them._

_And you believe her?_

_She saved my boy’s life._

Dean had tried prying more info out of her, some kind of leverage on this Diviner woman, but Dorothy’s loyalty cut deep. She’d walked away only a few seconds after that comment, as if regretting it, and Dean had thought about the Darkness instead, wondered if Amara had been set loose in this world as well; but then he’d realized that, multiverse or not, there was only one Amara, right?, ‘cause she’s God’s sister, and you don’t get _two_ Gods - or, whatever - if we’re talking turning into a swan and fuck your brains out god, then, sure, the more the fucking merrier, but _Chuck_ \- Dean had put another bite of tasteless pie into his mouth - Chuck was supposed to be the real deal, right? Maker of Heaven and Earth and whatever the fuck else, so that means a universe with twenty-thousand Dean Winchesters but only one Chuck. 

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Who the fuck even knows. 

Hell, Cas could probably explain - Dean’s lost count of all those conversations he’d walked in into - Sam and Cas bent over some physics book as Cas talked about stars and galaxies and what time actually is - and truth is, Dean’s too fucking dumb to understand any of it.

 _Your son may simply be slow, Mr Winchester - feeble-minded, you know?_ a voice says from deep inside his brain, and Dean passes a hand on the back of his neck as he tries to ignore that memory, because it’s wrong, it’s fucking _unfair_ , that he’s got such a sketchy mental landscape of his own childhood (of before Mom died, that is) but every single shitty moment since then, right, he’s got _that_ covered, and no mistake. Hell - he can’t remember ever playing with his mom, and he must have, hundreds of times - Legos and cars and puzzles and whatever the fuck else children like when they’re four - but that drugstore, that discussion the grown-ups were having about him - yeah, Dean’s a vindictive and paranoid motherfucker, so that, he remembers. He knows he’d wanted to speak, then - to shout words at them just to show ‘em, ‘cause he wasn’t _slow_ , goddammit, even Mrs Richardson down the road always smiled at him and _Such a clever young man, you must be so proud_ (and where’s Mrs Richardson now? Dean hasn’t thought about her in years) - but -

Dean kicks down the last of his sugary drink, wishes he could take a shower next, ‘cause something about this place - something about the torture chamber, and the cell where Cas was - is eating at his skin like lice.

And Cas -

_In others yet, we are lovers._

\- yeah.

Last thing he wants is to go there, so that’s what his scumbag brain zeroes in on - those other worlds Cas had mentioned, and Dean has to wonder if they’re shitty places, okay, because that’s the only way he sees it happen, grinding together after a hard kill, murmuring to each other down in some mud-flooded foxhole, and that’s how Cas lets him do that, that’s how he endures it and forgives it, ‘cause he can feel Dean freaking out with bloodlust and raw panic and so he lets himself be human - or, whatever, he lets Dean be human with him - but something about this clean kitchen opening up in front of him is making him soft and stupid, kitchens will do that to him, even industrial monsters like this one here, and Dean - Dean wipes his eyes with the palm of his hands as he imagines a different reality - some kind of house, and some kind of job, and Cas who stays there simply because he _wants_ to, because Dean is _enough_. He thinks about waking up in a room that’s got windows and checking the other side of the bed before getting up. He thinks about walking barefoot into a real kitchen, not a thing built for war, but a normal place with a fridge and a stove and a row of shelves (wood, not metal) and he thinks about Cas looking up as he walks in, how Cas would be covered in batter because he may be a billion year old but man, he sure can’t cook for shit.

The fantasy screeches to a halt, fades away into nothingness, and Dean mutters a curse.

That’s not something that Cas wants.

Even if he’s alive - even if they find him again - 

Thing is, there’s something wrong with Cas and Dean’s not sure he can fix it. 

_Free will is - complicated_ , Sam had said, shrugging off Dean’s concern when Cas had taken to watching _Real Housewives of Where-the-fuck-ever_ 24 hours a day, and Dean had wanted to _hit_ him, ‘cause Sam - Sam made it seem like -

‘Cause Dad had told him about guys like that. Guys who did fine in the army, Navy Crosses and Bronze Stars and all that shit, but as soon as that was over - 

_There’s men out there who need to be told what to do_ , John would scoff, ‘cause that - his Vietnam - that was something he was proud of - how he’d kept his head screwed on right, how he’d managed to come back home and find himself a job and a wife and the nightmares, he’d once slurred, when Dean was eleven and half his size and _fuck_ , dragging him home from bars, Dean _hated_ that, the nightmares had come later. After Mary was killed, after John had learned about demons, after he’d started hunting them. He’d sometimes wake up screaming, or freeze in a Walmart aisle, and that’s why Dean couldn’t hate him, despite all the shit he put him and Sam through every goddamn day. No, that’s why he’d tried looking after Dad as well as Sam, ‘cause he could see what Sam couldn’t: that John - John was not invincible. He was trying, like everyone fucking else, and yeah, so he could have tried harder, but Dean’s not in any position to judge him on that. 

( _No one is coming for you, but it doesn’t matter, does it, Dean? Because you love this, and you love me._

_Please -_

_Say it._

_Please, I’m_ begging _you._

_You love this, and you love me._

_...I love this, and I love you._

_Again._

_I love you._

_Good boy._ )

And if Cas is like those Nam buddies of John’s - _Being a good soldier, right - as if there’s any pride to be taken in that_ , Sam would say and they’d inevitably fight, and every single argument would end with Sam slamming some kind of door or retreating behind a book and a variation of the sentence, _You know who was good at following orders, Dean? Fucking_ Nazis _. Think with your own head, for fucking once_ , and Dean would -

But Sam wasn’t wrong, was he?

( _Dad knew who you really were. Good soldier, nothing else. Daddy's blunt little instrument. Your own_ father _didn't care whether you lived or died. Why should you?_ )

And Cas - Cas’ been made to follow orders, and when he can’t - when he won’t - when he doesn’t have any -

Dean thinks about the badly shaven man who’d popped pills like candy, and then about the child in her darkened prison, just waiting to go insane or be killed.

Fuck. 

How the _hell_ is he supposed to help Cas with any of it?

( _You have a good heart. You should not afraid to let it show._ )

Dean picks up the can, finds it’s empty, puts it down again, and just then Sam walks in, looking like something a cat dragged in.

He sits down next to Dean, makes some kind of disgusted noise.

“You know,” he starts, before Dean can ask, “of all the fucked up shit I’ve done in my life -”

“Sammy, come on -”

“- that’s what I regret the most. The people I tortured.”

“Demons, you mean.”

“People, demons. Whatever. It’s just not _right_.”

“Some of them have it coming.”

A second of silence. Sam pushes his hair back, does that thing with his hand he does when he’s anxious and worried and half out of his mind.

“Seneca said it’s not about _them_ deserving anything - it’s about what it does to _you_. Torturing someone - that’s bad for your soul. It’s -”

Dean says nothing. He sees Sam glance at him, sees Sam fucking remember that Dean - yeah, he’s on the other side of this, the one you don’t come back from, because hurting people - he’s been taught to fucking _like_ it, and it’s hard to turn it off, even if you want to.

“Anyway, I made them stop,” he adds, switching the thing mid-sentence, ‘cause one thing he’s not is subtle.

“Good for you.”

Dean can practically hear Sam roll his eyes at that, but he’s not feeling very charitable at the moment. So Sam’s been off playing Good Samaritan to fake Crowley - great. If they’d paid more attention to the other Crowley, they wouldn’t have been blindsided by -

“Good for _us_. Saving people, remember?” Sam quotes, and Dean scoffs at him.

“Crowley’s not people,” he says, thinking that’s unfair, ‘cause the guy was getting there and that’s God’s honest truth.

“Well, he is now.”

“ _What?_ ”

“They turned him.”

“They - what? With the blood?”

“No. A woman did it. Some kind of magic.”

Dean blinks, has to try twice to get his next words out.

“So it’s - done? He’s human for _good_?”

“Yeah.” Sam picks up the soda can, turns it around in his hands when he realizes it’s empty.

Dean keeps watching straight ahead and thing is, he knows he’s an idiot - he’s a mess and an idiot, and that’s not fucking news - but he still feels - _bad_. Crowley never wanted to be human. And sure, he bitched about it and drunk texted Dean about it and he could go on and on about missing the true taste of food and a real summer tan and whatever the fuck else, but Dean could see through that. 

Crowley was _afraid_. He had a ton fuck of enemies, and without his powers, they’d be lining around the block to take a shot at him.

(And who’d help him then?)

Also, whatever, some shrink would probably say Crowley had been a shitty person when he was alive, so going back to that - yeah. Life as a demon is much easier.

Hell, Dean should know.

“So where is he now?”

“Still chained up in that room, and probably not our problem,” Sam says, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself. “So, any leads on Mom and Cas?”

“Yeah - Cas says we should call Gabriel,” Dean says, before he can think better of it, and it’s almost worth it as Sam has some kind of heart attack and very nearly dies.

“What the - is _Cas_ \- you talked to _Cas_?”

“Not - some other version of him.” Sam’s eyes light up in excitement, but Dean cuts in before his brother can ask stupid questions he doesn’t want to answer. “Speaking of - did Crowley know you? Like, how did he react when he saw you?”

“Weird.”

“Sounds like he knows you, then.”

Sam almost grins.

“Yeah, that part was fun. He was convinced I was a shapeshifter, and after I cut myself -”

“You cut yourself?” Dean’s not even surprised. Let’s die of tetanus, as long as they’re stuck in a world without antibiotics. Why not.

“As a way to establish trust, yes,” Sam says, ‘cause he’s a nerd who spends his free time reading Quantico manuals. “Anyway, after that he said something strange - seemed convinced for a moment he’d fallen into a djinn’s dream.”

Dean can’t help it. He sits back and stares at Sam.

“What the fuck? Crowley thinks hanging with _you_ would be part of his ideal djinn world?”

Sam shrugs again.

“As I said, weird.” 

Dean takes a second to think it over, but there’s no way in hell this makes sense. Wherever that Crowley is from - he and Sam would _never_ be friends. And the guy’s just been tortured for God knows how long - chances are, someone hit him a bit too hard, is all.

“Did you find out where he’s from?”

“No. Not sure he knows himself. I think the pregnancy, and Jack’s birth - it caused some real disturbance. We’ve got at three worlds on our hands now - our own, this one, and wherever that Crowley’s from. It’s a mess.”

“Four,” Dean says, turning back to the empty kitchen.

“Four?”

“Cas’ not here.”

And again, Sam’s about to say something, but then thinks better of it.

“Do we have a plan?”

Dean sighs.

“Yeah, well - so the smash and grab is out -”

“It was never _in_.”

“Shut up, it was _so_ in -”

“You can’t do a smash and grab into a different dimension, Dean -”

“Anyway, looks to me like we don’t have much of a choice anymore,” Dean says, loudly. “We can either wait for those people to find Mom and get the hell out of here -”

“But what about what Jack said -”

“I don’t give a _shit_ what Jack said -”

“But we need to find -” Sam starts, but Dean’s suddenly fed up with all of it.

“So our world gets taken over by the Green Giant’s kid. So what? Twins and trees and fucking flowers everywhere - we’ve had worse.”

Another moment of silence, and then -

“You don’t think that,” Sam says, carefully.

“Yeah?”

“The way you started that sentence, there was a second option.”

“Don’t mean I want to go through with it.”

“We can still discuss it.”

“Jesus Christ. _Fine_. Or,” Dean says, theatrically, “we can call down that dick Gabriel. Which, no thank you.”

“Why?”

“Uh - _why_? Sam, come _on_.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“Well - first off,” Dean says, counting on his fingers, “there’s a chance he won’t even come down. Second, he could come down, be one of the bad guys and fucking kill us all.”

“Dean-”

“Third, he could come down, be one of the good guys and _still_ kill us all.”

“That’s not -”

“Fair? _Likely_? Hello? Earth to Sam? This is the damn _trickster_ we’re talking about. He killed me hundreds of times just for the hell of it.”

“Yeah, but -”

“So why _risk_ it, uh? Our lives are practically over anyway - say we manage all that, right, get Mom, get Cas, fix the world and go home - then what? There’s still a good chance we’ll both get gutted by a werewolf next week.”

“We can take a werewolf,” Sam says, worrying his hand again, and Dean thinks his brother’s deliberately avoiding the subject, and _Jesus_ , that’s how he gets, okay, Dean’s seen this before - Sam’s always liked to pretend he’s all bookish and sensible and _let’s look at this from a different angle_ , has been that way since they were kids, but the thing is, Sam’s rational when he _wants_ to be rational - but as soon as someone tells him there’s a way out and he’s the one who can magically fix everything - yeah - Dean doesn’t know if it’s guilt or too much time spent in churches, but that’s when you see it - Sam shooting down every other option that doesn’t include himself ending up dead in a ditch. 

Fuck. As if things weren’t bad already.

“We can take a werewolf?” he asks, in disbelief. “Bitch, you fucking _died_ last time we went up against one. I had to OD just to get Billie to -”

“I didn’t - wait, _what_?”

Sam’s voice is suddenly too loud in this big-ass kitchen, and Dean - fuck, he’s so tired and fucking done with everything he forgot he never -

“My point is, we’re dead men walking here, so why -” he tries, but Sam won’t have it.

“Back in Idaho - you OD’d? On _purpose_?”

“Fuck, that’s not the _point_ , Sam. I just wanted to talk to Billie, okay?”

“No you didn’t,” Sam counters, standing up, and now he’s angry. “You wanted to make a deal. My life for yours. Fucking _again_.”

“That’s not - get over yourself, Sammy.”

“Dean, for _fuck’s_ sake.”

“What?”

“Just - fuck it. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“You being like this.”

“Me being like this? You mean, me looking _out_ for you? Because let me tell you -”

“You thinking your life isn’t worth a _damn_ ,” Sam snaps, and now he’s almost shouting.

The silence only lasts for a few seconds.

“My life _isn’t_ worth a damn,” Dean says in the end, and it doesn’t even hurt to admit that by now. 

“That’s not _true_.” Sam growls, and goddammit, now he’s seriously angry. He glances at the door, as if he’s considering just walking the fuck away, and Dean clenches his jaw, willing him to just fucking _listen_ , to understand -

“I’m a damn _parasite_ , Sam. Only reason I’m even alive today is ‘cause I stole a heart from a girl ten years ago - how is that not -”

“That’s not what happened.”

“- so that whole Hell thing, yeah, I had it coming -”

“Stop it -”

“- and if Cas had left me there, we wouldn’t be in this damn -”

“So this is about Cas, right? I fucking _knew_ it.” Sam says, and this time he does take a step towards the exit, his head low, his hair falling in front of his eyes, and doesn’t Dean spend his entire goddamn time on this good Earth telling him to cut it already, ‘cause it’s dangerous and girly and when you fight for a living, you fucking need to see what’s coming at you?

 _Fuck_ the kid, really.

“What about him?”

Sam stops again, turns back, and there’s something strange flickering on his face - something that’s half fury, half fear, also a sort of determination to push the words out and be done with it.

“That you _miss_ him, Dean. That you _like_ him. That whatever you’ve seen two hours ago has messed you up so badly you can barely stand up.”

“I don’t _like_ him,” Dean says, looking up at his brother, and now he’s angry too, ‘cause - what the _fuck_? What the actual _fuck_?

“Okay, you don’t. Whatever. My mistake.”

“Sam -”

“No, I can’t do this now. I need to talk to the others, figure out a way to get Gabriel down here.”

Dean shakes his head, passes a hand against the back of his neck.

“So we’re doing this?”

“And you should go see Crowley - he asked about you.”

“What?” Dean asks, but Sam is already walking away.

Dean remains completely still for another few minutes, both hoping and fearing Sam will come back, bits of words and feelings swarming inside him like wasps, stinging and buzzing and making everything black and dead. 

And then, slowly, he stands up.

So everyone knows - in the space of two weeks, he’s told Jody about him and Crowley, he’s had Jack spill whatever secrets he had left for the world to hear, and now this - now Sam’s decided he’s out of fucks to give as well, and he won’t pretend like there’s anything normal or healthy or sane about whatever the hell is going on between Dean and Cas. 

Which is _nothing_ , by the way, and that’s why Dean never wanted to discuss it in the first place - not ‘cause he’s a pussy or anything, but because it’s item one in a long list of things Dean can’t do jack about and will never happen the way he wants them do, so why bother, right? So he doesn’t talk about Cas with Sam - big fucking _deal_. He doesn’t talk about how their lives would have been different if Mom hadn’t died, either, and he doesn’t talk about Dad punching him in the face and telling him he’s a worthless piece of shit, and he doesn’t talk about his pathetic longing to get his hands on a real house, a place with a porch and wooden floors and a yard Cas can do something with - sue him. What would be the goddamn _point_ of sitting around like goddamn chicks and yapping on and on about stuff he can’t change and stuff he can’t have and stuff he doesn’t fucking _deserve_ , anyway? And if Sam wants to be a bitch about it - whatever. He’s not the one who’s just seen Claire fucking Novak chained to a concrete floor. He’s not the one who screwed up, fucking _again_ , and he’s not the one -

 _Fuck_.

But Dean isn’t angry. Not really. He’s just - tired. Exhausted, and fucking _done_ with it. He’s _glad_ , in a way, Sam wants to call Gabriel down - let the fucker kill them all and fucking _end_ it, ‘cause what he’d said to Sam - he’d fucking _meant_ it. There’s a slim chance, here, a one in a million thing, that they get everything they’re hoping for and make it out. And then fucking _what_? Blenders and waffle makers and mowing the lawn every Saturday morning?

Right.

He picks up the can, absent-minded and fed up, crushes it in his hand when he remembers it’s empty.

And now - fuck, last thing Dean wants to do right now is talk to Crowley, but it’s also true that Crowley doesn’t look - well - he’d be a different person, right? And what’s the alternative? Hide in this kitchen waiting for someone to find him? Join the _let’s summon an archangel and get fried_ club? Truth is, if Dean sits here alone for another goddamn minute, his mind’s gonna go back to that fucking cell Claire was in - the cold, the damp, the sense of walls closing in. And it doesn’t matter if that’s not Claire, but Cas - if Cas can’t feel any of those things, ‘cause he’s not human and the cold doesn’t even bother him and he can summon himself kites and butterflies and LCD screen TVs to keep himself fucking busy - it’s a mess, is what it is. A fucking _mess_.

(And that doesn’t mean - he doesn’t _like_ Cas.

That’s not how it is.)

And so Dean glances at the door Sam’s disappeared through one last time; and then, his shoulders weighed down by blank anger and shame and sadness, he makes his way across the room, towards - _goddammit_ \- towards the torture chamber.

 _Fuck_.

 _I would give everything not to have you do this_ , Cas had said, a million years ago, and Dean knows this is not the same, that he’s not going in there to hurt Crowley, but Sam - Sam hadn’t been wrong. Of all the fucked up things they’ve done, of all the people they killed and betrayed and didn’t manage to save, torture - torture’s where the line is. 

Difference between them being, of course, that Dean fucking _enjoys_ that. The sense of control, the technique of it, the certainty that, for now, he’s safe - that he won’t get hurt, ‘cause he’s the one doing the hurting. He despises himself for it, sure, and that’s probably why Cas would look at him all earnest and say there’s nothing wrong with him, but whatever. Even before Hell, he’d hurt people for the fun of it. Or, not people - werewolves and vampires and ghouls - but what gave him the right, uh? What gave him the fucking _right_? And he’s heard all about it, thanks, that shit about abused kids turning into abusive adults, but that’s not - he wasn’t _abused_ , for Chrissakes. He’s just an asshole.

 _Takes one to know one_ , Crowley had said that one time, and now look at him - still tied to that cross, his head bowed, unwashed and matted black hair hanging in strands around his face. His arms and chest are a mosaic of tattoos, and, again, Dean finds himself doubting and and pushing against what he knows to be true, ‘cause this can’t be him. This is _not_ -

“Out,” he barks, at the man standing in the corner.

“I’m not sure,” the guy starts, but Dean’s done with these people.

“I’m the Chosen One, right?” he says, snidely. “The one who was promised, or whatever the fuck? I wanna talk to him, so get _out_ of my way.”

Crowley looks up, watches him leave. He looks at Dean next, and something changes in his eyes - there’s pain there, and anger, and another bout of feeling Dean can’t quite pin down.

“So,” he says, coming to a stop in front of Crowley. “Here I am.”

A beat of silence, and then -

“Here you are,” the man says, and goddammit, there’s the British accent, ‘cause some things never change and isn’t that just peachy.

They take the measure of each other, and Dean has to wonder at what the guy is seeing and how _well_ , exactly, he knew the Dean from his own world. Does he have an advantage, here, or not? Can Crowley read him at all? 

(Can he guess how _close_ to giving up Dean is?) 

It’s likely he can, ‘cause a djinn dream involving Sam - that sounds like Crowley knew them both well, and that means Dean’s outgunned here - the other Crowley, the real one - Dean hardly knew that one after years spent fighting and bickering and yelling at the guy, and now he’s gone, anyway, so -

“What’s the deal with you? Where do you even come from?”

“Not here,” Crowley says, his dark eyes still boring into Dean’s.

“Yeah, guessed as much.”

( _Don’t fight it, Dean. I’ll help - alright, duckie? I’ll help you. Just - let it happen._

_I can’t - I’m not -_

_Breathe. You’re okay. Breathe._ )

“And why’s Sam in your wet dreams, anyway?” Dean asks next, swallowing his nausea, ‘cause this room is making him sick - the stench alone would make anyone throw up - anyone _normal_ , that is, and those things gleaming and shimmering on the walls - _fuck_ -

“Jealous?” Crowley rasps, and he tries to stand up straighter.

Dean scoffs.

“You _wish_.”

Crowley smiles.

“Who’re you wearing, anyway? That’s fucking _weird_.”

“Weird? I’m touched.”

“Why?”

“I take it that you - interacted - enough with that other version of me that it’s _distressing_ to you to see me in a different vessel?”

_Jesus._

“Demons don’t get _vessels_ , scumbag,” Dean snaps. “You _steal_ bodies. You’re fucking _hyenas_.”

Crowley finally breaks eye contact, turns his head slightly so he can contemplate his own outstretched hand.

“This man sold his soul to me in exchange for the pain I would cause another,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You should not mourn him.”

Dean makes a gesture of frustration and suppresses it halfway through because he suddenly remembers they likely have an audience. The glass wall he’s seen from the main hall looks like bricks from the inside, but it’s too much to hope the entire freakish cult isn’t out there watching the two of them.

“What do you _want_?” he hisses, and Crowley turns his eyes on him again.

“You are alive,” he says; and then, “Are you well?”

There’s no feeling in the words. Dean can’t guess which answer Crowley would be happy to hear.

“Peachy.”

“That’s not true. What do you need?”

“Right now? Fucking Gabriel, apparently.”

A beat of silence.

“I know how to summon an archangel. I can help you.”

“Why?”

“I have a debt with you. I don’t like having debts.”

“Keep talking.”

“You don’t need to know any more than that,” Crowley says, in his usual patronizing tone and Dean’s eyes move to the instruments on the wall, then back again.

“Not good enough. You’re the one who’s chained up, if you haven’t noticed, so -”

“I have a _debt_ with you.”

They look at each other for a moment longer, and fuck, Dean thinks he can actually see the Crowley he knew in the man standing here, experiences a sharp stab of sadness for the state of him - he knows the signs, can tell how long Crowley’s been tied to this cross, and as for the other thing - as for the fact Crowley’s _human_ now - that’s something almost solid between them, a wall of some kind this half friend and half enemy and complete _bastard_ is waiting for Dean to tear down, because he can’t and he won’t do it himself.

But Dean just doesn’t have it in him to do that.

He doesn’t want to talk to Crowley, and he doesn’t want to summon Gabriel, and he doesn’t want to -

(It should have been _him_.

If Cas had been the one with Sam, he could have kept an eye on Jack, and things - things would have been way better.)

“Okay. Fine,” Dean says, tearing his eyes off this face he doesn’t know at all; and he turns around, and he walks away.

He doesn’t think about it, either. He doesn’t think about that first room Crowley had booked for them - how he’d splurged on some thing with tall ceilings and a view on Lake Michigan - how he’d stood there and taken it as Dean howled and cried and beat the _shit_ out of him - how he’d finally looked up and smiled through a broken lip and _You’re going to be fine. You’ll see. There’s joy in the shadows, Dean_.

“I _wanted_ you,” Crowley suddenly says behind him, and Dean freezes.

“Yeah? You and everybody fucking else,” he snaps without turning around, knowing he’s not even close to hiding what he’s feeling, because Crowley - Crowley was always able to read him just fine. “I’m hot stuff, that’s not fucking news.”

There is a pause, and then a metallic noise - chains.

“Oh, but I’m _better_ than everybody fucking else, duckie. I trapped you, and I took you, and I _had_ you.”

There’s a threat in those words, loud and clear, but at the same time - Dean’s not - he can’t bite back, as he normally would, because this is not an enemy snarling at him, this is - there’s a promise of dirty, rough sex in those words, but Dean sees through them, because Crowley may know him after all these years, but the thing cuts both ways. And Dean _does_ remember it, better than he wishes to - how violence had been, in the end, more of an alibi than an actual reality. How Crowley had taken to just look at him, drinking him in with the same careful devotion the guy normally reserved for his fine whiskeys, and how hurting him - yeah, that hadn’t been in the cards at all, and never mind that Dean could take it now, never mind -

“Good for you. Still not what I asked,” Dean says, as coldly as he can; and he keeps moving towards the door, and that’s when it happens, because -

“You died,” Crowley says next, and Dean finally stops, looks back at Crowley from over his shoulder.

“I still don’t care,” he snaps. “You know how many fucking times I died over here? So you killed me - you turned me - whatever. That doesn’t make us friends. Grow the fuck _up_.”

Something flashes in Crowley’s eyes, then; bitterness, maybe, or just plain hurt.

“You killed Sam,” he spits out, “Because of _me_.”

Dean clenches his jaw, checks his gun. He says nothing, hopes -

“Yes,” Crowley adds. “You’re the same way he was. I see that now. You’ve _wished_ he was dead, am I right? You _did_ wish that. More than once, and how much have you punished yourself for it?”

 _Fuck_. The demon shouldn’t be able to read Dean so well, because he’s no longer a demon, and Dean knows that - knows he can just walk away, and ignore all this, knows Crowley’s dead in every way that matters, but - but there’s still _something_ there, like a fucked-up gravity pushing them together.

“And maybe you died for him. Maybe you killed for him. But that _guilt_ , Dean - that never really goes away, does it?”

And Dean closes the distance between them, grabs a knife on the way - in no time at all, he’s so close to Crowley the stench of him is pressing against his face - blood and pain and shit and piss - and there’s something inside him now screaming and screaming, blotting the room out, because if he can just _end_ it - if he ganks Crowley right now, that’s one less person he’s responsible for, one less person who can fucking _see_ him for what he truly is - Dean’s left hand contracts against Crowley’s neck, his thumb presses down against the jugular, against a dark blue design on the dirty skin that could be the sea or a cloud, and Dean -

( _You know, I normally don’t find inked bodies attractive at all, but mate - you’re making me rethink that. Come here, now. Let us see if that pentagram tastes as good as it looks like._ )

\- Dean drops his head in the crook of Crowley’s shoulder, the blade cold and dangerous between their bodies, and he -

 _Fuck_.

“What do you _want_?” he whispers. “What the _fuck_ do you want?”

Crowley turns his head, only just, so that his lips are against Dean’s hair.

“In my world, you did it. You killed him. And it _destroyed_ you, Dean. And that - that was on me. So I’m telling you again - I owe you a debt. Tell me what you need, and I will help you.” 

Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“I can’t,” he says, “I’m not -”

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Crowley says, and Dean tries as hard as he can to believe him as the room spins and spins around them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the famous Virgil line _facilis descensus Averno_ , which means 'easy is the descent into Hell. As for that Seneca mention - if you want to know what that was about, you can read the relevant passage [here](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Seneca%27s_letter_describing_gladiators).  
> Oh, and the Crowley in my mind was Naveen Andrews. ;)


	17. Relationship Status

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - if you have questions about updates and stuff, please come by [my tumblr](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/) or check the tags [_my writing_](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/search/my+writing) and [_blues run the game_](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/search/blues+run+the+game).

When Cas knocks on the door of the old house Dean and his family live in, it’s early morning. He didn’t mean to come back so late, and, truth be told, he’s not sure whether he should have come back at all. It would have been easier, perhaps, to enlist Balthazar’s help in getting back to his own dimension, and leave Dean be.

(Not that Balthazar would have known where to start, exactly. A convergence - that demands divine power, and in this universe, as in others, God walked away a long time ago.

And Balthazar hadn’t asked Cas to come with him, not in so many words, but - 

No.

There is nothing for him here.

Nothing at all.)

As he waits on the porch, Cas does his best to push Dean’s emotions away from his own consciousness, because he knows Dean is inside the house - he knows Dean is alone, and angry, and frightened; he can almost taste the feelings on his own tongue, and he has no right to. This is Dean’s world, and this is Dean’s choice to make - whether he’ll come to the door or not, whether he’ll want to share his most intimate -

The door bangs open, and Cas takes a step back on instinct; the fingers of his right hand clench, looking for a weapon he no longer has.

“What the _fuck_ happened?” Dean snarls. “Where _were_ you?”

There something around his face and eyes - he looks angry, almost murderous. And also - _also_ \- Cas squints up at him, thinks he can see another question in the space between them - an unspoken, yet very loud, _Why are you back?_

He drops his head.

_This is what I was always meant to be: a cautionary tale._

_Come on, man. That’s not true._

“I promised I would heal you,” he says in the end, and it’s not a lie, exactly - he did promise that, and it’s a promise he means to keep, but at the same time, it’s not the reason he came back.

Or not the main reason, anyway.

Because something about his conversation with Balthazar, about flying with him and experiencing life through the truest self of an undiluted angel nature in a way he hasn’t been able to for a long time - well, something about that had felt - off. Balthazar gifted him the sight of a shimmering galaxy and that elation only high speed and full color can bring about, but all of that - halfway through the night, Cas had found himself remembering a different kind of thrill - simply sitting in the car with Dean on a warm summer evening, watching Dean has he mimed a drum solo on the wheel - and how his own chest had tightened, like a human’s would, when Dean had glanced at him afterwards and said, _I’m glad you’re here, man_. 

(Cas shouldn’t care about that, but he can’t think of anyone ever actively enjoying his company. Among the angels, he’d been an appreciated fighter, and his human charges had often been grateful for his support and guidance, but what Dean does - this way he has of smiling at Cas, of touching him as they pass each other, of bringing him things - cups of coffee and DVDs and a black, heavy handgun because ‘Magic and knives are cool as hell, but you can never go wrong with an M1911’ - with the same distracted grace cats have, as if you’re the one doing a favor to them and not the other way around - well - Dean never had any reason to like Cas, or even trust him, but somehow, despite everything, he _does_ \- and more than that, he seems to want Cas to stay, not because of what Cas can offer, but simply because -

How Dean’s soul opens up in pastels and gold when he sees Cas: that’s something Cas misses so hard he fears he might bleed human blood from the strength of it.)

And so, Cas is back, not because of what he can do for this version of Dean, but for what he hopes the man can do for him - not help him go back, because no one and nothing can do that, but just - Cas needs to see, one last time, that Dean is happy and loved - that there is at least one world in which Dean can wake up every morning without fearing for his life, without -

“I don’t want you to _fix_ me. I don’t _need_ fixing.”

“I never said -”

“And I _told_ you - I never wanted -”

There it is again: a dark color that could be guilt or accusation, and Cas knows he should know the difference by now, but humans are often hard to read - they’re mostly no more aware of their feelings than Cas is of his own - and Dean never allows himself to be too harsh towards others, ends up blaming his own shortcomings (real or imagined) even when he shouldn’t, Cas remembers how his anger sometimes means ‘I care about you’, how he’d never quite managed to shake that sense of responsibility off Dean’s shoulders, to convince the Righteous Man that not everyone’s life was his to save, and certainly not Cas’. And despite his quiet and well lived-in house, despite the loaf of bread that’s proving right now only twenty feet away, despite the bright blue polish he had to scrub of his fingernails this morning (“Now you’re an ice princess, daddy.”) - despite a heart that’s full and heavy with love for a family the other Dean, the ‘real’ one, never had a chance to even imagine - despite all that, this is still _Dean_ standing in front of him, Dean who’s angry at him, disappointed in him, perhaps, as he so often is, Dean who’s probably wondering if helping Cas was even worth it, Dean who doesn’t understand where Cas went and why he decided to come back, and Cas can’t blame him.

He survived a contraption that was meant to kill creatures like him; that’s far more than he deserved. He shouldn’t presume to ask for anything else.

“Dean, I’m -”

“Don’t you _dare_ say you’re sorry.”

Dean’s hands are closed into fists by his sides, like he’s physically preventing himself from stepping on the porch and punching him, and Cas wonders, fleetingly, unwillingly, if Dean doesn’t want to hurt him or is simply afraid Cas will hit him back.

(Or maybe he _wants_ Cas to hit him back, as he had in the other world, several times, because there are moments when Dean can’t control or rein in the complex wave of emotions flowing through him, and Cas knows he then finds it easier to shut them down - to drown them and silence them with alcohol or with blood, those gold and red treasures humans have been offering in sacrifice ever since the dawn of time.)

Cas looks back up.

“I lost track of time,” he admits, quietly, and there is a moment of stunned silence before Dean laughs - an ugly, bitter sound.

“Jesus _Christ_ \- you think I’m angry ‘cause you’re _late_? You - fuck - what fucking _planet_ are you from?”

“I -”

Cas looks away. Dean had always hated not knowing where he was. He’d hated it in the very beginning, when keeping track of someone who could easily turn into a dangerous enemy had been paramount to his, and Sam’s, safety, and he hates it even more now he cares about Cas, because Cas - Cas is bad with time, and will forget to charge his phone or to count how many days he’s been away and the occasional stabs of Dean longing for him - that’s something Cas is used to by now, and has been trying to disregard, because they’re distracting and painful and feel way too similar to - to romantic longing, and they’re not.

(How could they be?)

“You brought an angel to my house. To my _daughter_ ’s house.”

“I didn’t -”

“That thing came down because of you, and if something had happened -”

“Balthazar is not -”

At hearing the name, Dean seems to become even angrier.

“Listen, _Cassie_ ,” he spits out, “I know up there you’re all pals, but this is my family and I -”

“That’s not true.”

Dean just stares at him, and Cas takes another step back.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “if I caused you any inconvenience. It was never my intention to do so. The Gates are still closed, and Balthazar won’t be back. You don’t need to worry about him.”

As Cas turns around and starts making his way through the garden, he’s hit, hard, by all those signs of a child he hasn’t met. The swing on the old cottonwood, a forgotten baseball, a small, precarious construction of twigs and feathers that could be a castle or some kind of truck - John and Mary’s lawn had looked much like this one on the night when a demon had walked up their steps and tried to make Sam his, and Cas - Cas is slow and wrong, as he usually is, and he never realized, not fully, what his presence here would do to Dean - how deep that love between parents and their children cuts. He now understands that some part of him assumed he would be welcome here, because Dean had found him in those woods, because Dean had listened to him and helped him -

(because he and Dean - because _Dean_ -)

\- but that doesn’t mean - that won’t -

(He remembers Dean shaving in front of a chipped motel mirror; Dean looking at him without turning around as he listened to Cas’ plans to get rid of Raphael. He remembers the rapid colors flashing against the back of his head like miniature fireworks as Dean’s conflicted feelings - annoyance, worry, a wave of rapidly suppressed and guilty _want_ , the determination to just get it over with - finally blossomed into a warm light of determination as he decided that yes, he _would_ help Cas - not because he fully trusted him or believed him, but because of the bond between them - because Cas had helped him first, because Cas was, in his own way, honest and fair, and Dean would do the right thing even if it cost him his life.

He remembers recognizing Dean as soon as he’d stepped into his cell, and wondering at it - how it was possible to feel so close to a human he’d never met before and was never meant to be his vessel at all; and he remembers Dean’s hand reaching up to touch him just moments before Cas had pushed him back into his own body and flown away.)

The thought flickers and fades from his mind as Dean catches up with him, grabs the back of his shirt and spins him around.

“What the _hell_? Where are you going?” he asks, but Cas has no answer to that.

 _Away from you_ , is the only thing that comes to mind, but it sounds - _wrong_ inside Cas’ mind - melodramatic and mean, as if Dean had done something he shouldn’t have.

(Dean had never liked that, even if Cas tries not to dwell on it; he’d always - resented the idea that Cas couldn’t stay there with him full time, that he wasn’t at his beck and all, that there was a whole other life, different and alien, unfolding in a place Dean couldn’t even begin to understand.)

“I,” he starts, and there’s nothing after that.

Angels were not created to act alone, and Balthazar’s hurt and loneliness had been immediately apparent despite his determined cheerfulness. And Cas - Cas had known the moment he’d woken up in that forest clearing that there was no getting back, no recreating that strange, intimate, unusual connection he’d managed to find with Dean - and he realizes now that all is not over - that he chose isolation once before, in Purgatory, and he survived it.

(He’d meant to win his redemption by fighting and dying in that place, but as the weeks went by, he’d found himself doing a lot more fighting than dying, Dean’s voice loud in his ears even after Dean had walked through the portal.

_Goddammit, Cas._

_I - I need you here._

_I’m sorry._ )

And this place - Cas could follow in Akobel’s footsteps and make a life for himself in the human world, which would be ironic in an extremely unfunny way, or he could impose his presence on Balthazar knowing full well how painful his friend finds his presence - because Balthazar had smiled and laughed all through the night, the pretty, regular features of his vessel echoing his pleasure, but Cas hadn’t been fooled.

The person Balthazar misses is not him.

 _Remember when we_ , Balthazar had said, five or ten times over, and those memories had meant nothing to Cas. He’d tried to offer up his own stories, and how he and Balthazar had once walked the streets of Florence and watched a revolution, but the words had sounded hollow and wrong to his own ears.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, and there’s a long beat of silence before Dean speaks again. 

“What’s not true?” he asks, and he’s not - he’s still angry, but there’s a note of uncertainty there now, and Cas is reminded of how little Dean knows about angels - in this world, Dean met Michael - he was swallowed and devoured by Michael, disappeared into the fury and winter storm that is an archangel’s will, but beyond that -

“God left, Dean.” The day is rising around them now, sunny and peaceful and full of that music Dean can’t hear - flowers and trees and the blue green mountains waking up - yawning and stretching in the new dawn. “And Heaven - angels don’t do well without orders.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Balthazar chose to walk away. In fact, he probably hates Michael more than you do. He and I - in my world, we fought together against Raphael, and -”

The rest of it won’t come out. 

Dean looks away, seemingly distracted by the metal of a car, or a truck, blinking in the distance.

“I thought - aren’t archangels in charge?”

“They are,” nods Cas. “That doesn’t make their choices just.”

“So you guys just - what? Staged your own _Heathers_ crap and iced the boss?”

“We were trying to protect humanity.”

Sometimes Cas thinks that, out of all of them, it was always Raphael he resents the most. Lucifer was corrupted by the Mark of Cain, and Michael always walked in his Father’s shadow, but Raphael - he could have chosen to let it go, and instead - 

Everything could have been so _different_.

Because Cas remembers what that was like - coming back to Heaven after the battle at Stull Cemetery - angels watching him pass, some of them silent, others whispering and pointing and waiting to be told whether Lucifer and Michael’s twin demise was a good thing or a bad thing - Raphael should have taken control then, he should have - they could have closed the Gates of Hell, Cas would have asked for a _centuria_ and done the thing himself, because without Lucifer - without any of the White-Eyed demons - there had been a chance, right _there_ -

(There had been those, in Heaven, who had argued for the sealing of the Pearly Gates as well, and while Cas could see the merit in the idea, he couldn’t bring himself to support it. As much as he liked what humans sometimes called Paradise, he liked the Earth much more. There was a dullness to people’s feelings once they were dead - a gradual stilling of their fiery passions and their creative spark, and Cas -)

It was selfishness, really, which means Cas can’t bring himself to hate Raphael, or anyone else. In their own way, everyone acts out of self-interest and follows their own happiness, and that’s a lesson Cas should do well to remember.

(“Think of _yourself_ , for once,” Dean had snapped at him, very nearly undone by grief and worry, and Cas - Cas had thought him unworthy. For only a second, of course, but that had been a second too long.

Now he sees things more clearly, however, Cas understands he’s much more selfish than Dean can perceive, so selfish he’s been thankful for the life he’s enjoyed with the Winchester - for the fact Sam still considers him a friend after everything, for the way Dean looks at him and how he never mentions finding a real partner anymore - a woman he can have children and a house with - no, Cas is selfishly happy for those stolen moments of quiet he's had with both of them, for the afternoons spent working in some diner in Lawrence and the occasional pool game in the evening - thankful for Dean knocking on his door and sitting on the edge of the desk as he explained about Clint Eastwood and _Star Wars_ and a man who’d chosen a dog name for himself and outsmarted the entire Nazi army - thankful for the long drives, even, for Sam and Dean’s easy bickering, for the coffee breaks and the warmth of the cup against his human skin as the three of them stood and looked at a field of corn slowly turning bright gold with the light of a new day. Grateful for the smile in Sam’s voice as he said, _Look at that_. Grateful for Dean glancing at him and rolling his eyes before clapping Cas on the shoulder with his free hand and replying, in something that wasn't quite mockery, _Give me Solitude, give me Nature_. 

Grateful for how Dean would ruffle his hair next, his thumb light and teasing just below Cas’ ear.) 

“Humanity, uh? When are you going to tell me the truth?”

Dean is no longer angry - there is a kind of embarrassed curiosity in the words now, the same _No way_ that exploded out of his soul before Balthazar’s arrival, when they’d come dangerously close to defining something Cas isn’t sure he’s willing to share: those feelings Dean, the other one, has and doesn’t have and how Cas responds to them.

“The truth?” he echoes, but Dean won’t have it.

“The truth about you and - _him_. Because it seems to me there was more than humanity you wanted to save.”

“Can you - see things? From the other world?” Cas asks, and he’s distracted for a moment by the implication. 

He thinks, fleetingly, about his own dream, and how _real_ it’d felt. 

(Dean lying in his bed, a hand splayed open on his chest, his music of pain and rage and lost love spilling over from the headphones. The unfolded map on the floor. A box of some kind of pills, untouched, on the bedside table.)

“What? Why would I?”

Cas cheats, then - he shakes his broken wings, only just, and sees Dean’s eyes follow the movement before Dean clenches his jaw and looks away.

“I -”

“I’m _normal_ , okay? I’m - human. I can’t see any of that _shit_.”

“Dean, it’s okay.”

“I’m _human_.”

Cas opens his mouth, closes it again.

“How,” he starts, as gently as he can, and Dean opens his arms in exasperation.

“You _told_ me, okay? You said - stuff.”

“What do you mean?”

Dean looks at him, then away. He’s not blushing, exactly, but there’s a faint color to his cheeks that could be embarrassment or anger.

“Back at the cabin, when you were asleep, you - I heard you.”

“Dean, I don’t -”

“You said you _loved_ him!”

The words are suspended between them for a long, agonizing moment, like a tree starkly lit up by lightning before it crumbles away.

“I don’t remember that,” Cas says in the end, keeping his voice carefully blank, and sees Dean’s emotions have shifted again - his anger has turned inwards, as if he’s upset at himself for trusting Cas in the first place.

“Or maybe,” he says, slowly, “maybe you do. Maybe you were lying. So I’d help you.”

“I would _never_ lie to you. Not about that,” Cas amends, because the truth is, he’s lied to Dean before, more than once. “And I can go. I will go. I’m sorry I -”

“Not about that? What does that mean? What’s the damn _truth_ here?” Dean snaps at him, and it’s clear he doesn’t want to care, but he does, and it’s eating away at him.

And it’s not like Cas hasn’t imagined having this conversation with Dean before, but one of the many reasons he hasn’t is because he doesn’t have the right words - not to explain what he wants, not for any of it.

(“You always know what to say to them,” Cas had said once, as they waited for Sam outside the office of a campground just outside Reno.

Dean had seemed surprised - he’d looked away, almost guiltily, from the two children who’d been fighting over a toy on the steps of their parents' RV.

“Whatever,” he’d scoffed, but Cas still had trouble recognizing how that meant, _Stop talking_ , and so he'd insisted.

“Would you like to have children?” he’d said, and he’d been surprised by the sharp flash of conflicted emotions lighting up Dean’s soul - pain and regret and embarrassment and something very close to exasperation.

“I wouldn’t be good at all that shit, Cas. Kids deserve -”

Cas had thought about that night they’d shared, then - how Dean had picked up Nora’s baby, how he’d cooed at her until she’d stopped crying - how he’d looked up at Cas next with that same thing on his face - an open, _vulnerable_ look that Cas, lost in his own regrets, hadn’t known what to make of. 

Because Cas knows Dean sometimes resents the role he had in Sam’s life; knows there are moments when Dean think the ending can’t come soon enough, _‘Cause it’d be easier, okay_ , and _Let me just fucking rest already_. But he also knows of that other side Dean will only rarely give in to - he knows of the way Dean smiled at Charlie, and how his soul would lit up when he saw her - he remembers Dean cooking for Kevin Tran and he knows Dean likes talking to babies and will get into heated discussions about superheroes with the children of the shell-shocked widows he’s trying to help. He knows all that, and that’s why -)

What would he even say to Dean? Whatever he feels for Dean is nowhere near sharp enough to be what a human being would call love. And Dean deserves - Dean wants a family - a _true_ family, not some make-believe version of it. That’s been his deepest, most secret wish ever since that night when he pressed his face against the car window and watched the only home he’d ever known go up in flames, and Cas is not about to steal that from him with his misguided, inappropriate, just not good enough affection.

“I don’t know,” he says after a full minute of silence; and then takes half a step towards Dean as Dean shakes his head, starts to walk away. “Dean, no - wait - it’s - complicated.”

“French braids are _complicated_ ,” Dean spits out. “Sex in the driver’s seat, that's _complicated_. Love ain’t _complicated_. You either love someone or you don’t.”

His soul is a mess of things now, and Cas gives up even trying to understand it. He’s unsettled himself - nervous and unhappy and desperately lonely in front of this house that was never meant for him in any way.

“I’m not human,” he snaps. “I don’t - I _can’t_ \- Dean, I’m not allowed to experience human feelings. Being with you, getting to know you, it -”

\- _it broke me_ , he’s about to say, because he’s heard that so many times over the years - from friends and from enemies and even Sam, once, had asked him, a bit diffidently, _Cas, what do you think about - do you think you can have a relationship, a normal one, when you don’t feel -_

His sentence had trailed away, but Cas had tried to reassure him anyway, thinking Dean would have want him to lie rather than make things worse.

But maybe Cas should say it, right here and now - maybe this is his chance to come clean about his fears and doubts, because this man - a father and a husband on the other side of the universe - well, they don’t know each other, and whatever Cas says to him, Dean wouldn’t take it personally. He would push Cas away, at the very worst, but where’s the harm in that? Cas needs to go in any case. The chance he’ll be able to slip back into his own world is slim, that he knows, but he can’t stay here. He can’t impose his presence on this family, damage them and bring danger to them the way he’s done to Sam and Dean.

(He can’t wait here for Jo to come home, can’t witness this incontrovertible proof of - of -

Because Dean doesn’t _need_ him, not here, not back home, and he’d be happier and safer without him.)

“That’s bullshit,” Dean says, before Cas can get the words out. Cas stares at him. “I remember - I remember your brother - not all of it, but enough. That asshole had plenty of his own feelings, and he understood about mine, too. Enough to -”

Dean turns away. Cas stays silent.

“You said you loved him. You said you’d promised him to stay. Why’d you say that if you didn’t mean it?”

“I - the way we relate to people can be complex,” Cas says, wishing he could explain better. “You said so yourself, you said Jo -”

“Jo and me were both sleeping with the same guy,” Dean snaps. “That’s not - that’s _different_. He cheated on both of us, okay, and then he died and Jo was carrying his baby and I -” he tries to stop speaking, can’t. “I told her I’d help her, I’d be there for her and the baby, and I fucking _did_. I _stayed_. ‘Cause that’s what you do with promises, Cas - you fucking _keep_ them.”

Without meaning to, Cas slips inside Deans mind, and the whole thing unspools in front of him like a tree living through summer and fall and winter - the grief and resentment that had bound Dean and Jo together in the very beginning - how Dean had been very nearly undone by what he’d been forced to do to Sam - Jo waking up every night, her lungs full of unspent screams, her mind a blank, shocking memory of her father’s last moments - their anger at Richie, someone Cas remembers only vaguely from his own timeline as a man Dean had shared a bed with for a few weeks after Sam had left for Stanford, and then - the pregnancy, the determined, furious need to let go and carry on, for the baby’s sake if nothing else - Cas blinks as he sees it happen - Dean and Jo sharing the house, driving to doctors’ appointments together, and talking - a bit formally at first, and then more easily, joyfully, almost, about childhood memories and better times - how Dean would glance at Jo and then away; how Jo’s touches had become longer, lingering, more intimate. And finally, Cas is walking with Dean to Jo’s room, knocking on her door, and that’s when he forces himself to step back, stop watching, leave these people alone, because he can’t - he’s _not_ -

“You keep them,” Dean says again, and it’s not clear if he knows what Cas has just seen, but all fight seems to have left him; he stumbles back, collapses on the steps of the porch, hides his face in his hands.

“I can teach you how to ward off angels,” Cas says, at a loss; and Dean takes a big breath, presses the palm of his hands against his eyes, looks up at him.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The silence stretches on and on, but for some reason it’s no longer hostile. Cas feels he’s done little to deserve the shift. A dozen half broken sentences start and wither in his mind.

“I’m not like Michael,” he says in the end, and Dean makes a noise that’s between amusement and relief.

“I know that.”

“No, I mean - archangels are - I’m much less powerful. My understanding of humanity, the range and depth of human emotions I can experience -”

“Cas -”

“I think that’s not enough for Dean, that he won’t -”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean says again; and this time, Cas stops, looks down at him. “You should let him decide that.”

“He’s,” Cas starts, but suddenly they both hear it - a car leaving the main road, coming closer and closer.

Dean cocks his head to one side, listens to the engine purring.

“That’s Jo’s Corvette,” he states with absolute certainty, his soul turning to bright gold; he stands up, moves past Cas, and within a few minutes, Jo is there, walking towards them - her face tired and worried, a wisp of dark blond hair escaping her ponytail.

“Jess called,” she says, with a distracted glance at Cas. “She and Sam are two hours out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless self-promotion: I wrote about that moment between Cas and Dean in _Free To Be You and Me_ in [_Personal Space_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8067577). As for that reference to Cas and Balthazar in Florence, that's described in a scene of my 2016 DCBB, [_The Way Out_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8315497/chapters/19042117).
> 
> Chapter 18 will probably be out at the beginning of January - happy Christmas and happy holidays, everyone!
> 
> (Also the good - or bad? - news is that this story is going to be two chapters longer than I expected. And there’s other news, as well, but I don’t feel like sharing it just yet because you guys might want to kill me.)


	18. Sugar Rush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really a warning for anything, but Dean's his usual depressed self, okay? Good.

When Dean comes back to the main room with Crowley, Sam’s not there, which immediately causes his mood to turn even blacker and muddier, because _fuck_ , why does Sam even _do_ this? They started training together thirty fuck years ago, and that’s the first rule, okay, the _first_ fucking rule - stick together and cover each other’s backs instead of - to pick a random, _unlikely_ scenario - wandering off on your fucking own in an alien world full of people who probably want to kill them both? Because Dean’s been thinking about that, on and off, about the mole people and about big slabs of stone and human sacrifices, and he’s got this weight deep down in his stomach, a dread and a certainty that it’s going to come down to this - fucking _again_ \- that one of them’s gonna have to jump in a fucking hole, and -

( _You can’t save everyone, my friend._ ) 

\- after everything, Dean doesn’t even care about that part - he cares about these freaks botching it and making it hurt, right, and he cares about Sam trying to stop him, because it’s going to be _him_ , that’s not even a question, and that’s why he’s wary and afraid and fed up with Sam’s disappearing act, because what if -

( _I was ready to die, Dean._ )

\- what _if_ -

(Dean remembers it well: the stench of mud and blood, Sam’s head falling forwards, his eyes glassy and distant, his skin pale and dirty and so, so cold -

_It hurts._

_I know. I know it does. But it’s just a fever, okay? And Dad will be home soon and -_

_When is soon?_

_Tonight, maybe. Or tomorrow._

\- and Dean had been barely able to hold his brother up, and _fuck_ , he should have been used to Sam being all grown up and tall as fuck by then but he still wasn’t, he still -

 _Deeeeaaaan, my head hurts. Make it_ stop _!_

 _It’s just - I - don’t be scared. I’ll never let anything bad happen to you, okay?_ Never.

_Promise?_

_Promise._ )

But it’s useless to go there. Sam can hold his own, and he’s got a good head on his shoulders. 

So whatever he’s off doing, it’s gotta be important.

Right?

Right.

Someone suddenly puts a hand on the small of his back, lightly, almost intimately, and Dean blinks, comes back to reality. Squaring his jaw, he glances to his left, sees Crowley standing there - or, whatever, this man pretending to be Crowley, someone whose hair is still matted with blood - the guy’s wearing a t-shirt someone’s reluctantly handed over, but it does very little to cover the signs of torture, his frown of pain as he lets his hand fall again and examines a deep cut on his wrist. Dean looks away, back to the small crowd now gathered in front of them. Most eyes are fixed on Crowley, and Dean’s got enough experience to read the room - to see those covert movements towards hidden weapons, to know they’re about one minute away from being attacked, because all it takes is one guy to start something, and next -

“So, uhm, I know him,” he says, shooting for Eastwood and landing on ‘outgunned and unqualified sub teacher’. “He’s alright.”

_Jesus._

“What he _means_ is, you lot need me,” says Crowley, taking a step forward. “Hey, you got chalk?”

Dean pats his pockets, remembers he’s not carrying anything of the sort, and opens his hands, palms up, ‘cause yeah, he actually hadn’t packed for interdimensional travel when he’d gone up to confront Jack about seventy years ago and sue him, Crowley’s got no right to look so - so -

Crowley glances down, rolls his eyes.

“And some things never change,” he comments, and he’s pointing at something now -

_Fuck._

\- because, yeah, so he doesn’t give a damn about the chalk but there is Cas name, the letters a bit smudged by now, but still plenty readable on Dean’s left palm.

( _In others yet, we are lovers._ )

“Just - shut up and do it,” Dean mutters, closing his hand into a fist, and Crowley walks up to the crowd, as unconcerned and cat-like as a magician before a tricky, suspenseful performance, and finally gets what he needs from a scrawny woman who does her very best not to touch him in any way.

“Now watch closely,” he says grandly, kneeling down on the concrete floor with a wince; then he looks up at Dean. “And if I die - burn me.”

“Is that likely?”

Crowley doesn’t answer. His hand hovers a few inches off the ground for a few seconds, as if waiting for something, but they both know Dean won’t stop him either way. They need this, and he and Crowley never had - it was never - they don’t _know_ each other, goddammit, and that’s why Dean tightens his fist until it hurts, until the pain drowns out that voice in your head, that _This is on you_ that’s been there since the night of the fire and nothing has ever really burned out of his brain.

And so Crowley squares his shoulders and begins.

Dean has to give it to him - he’s seen magic in his life before, and way too fucking much of it, but this - this is something else. There’s a sense of raw power mounting around the room, a sort of heavy warmth seeping up from the very ground, a thing of sudden flashes of darkness and growls and distant howls, but Crowley seems to be in perfect control of it. As people retreat against the far walls, as Dean himself steps back, checking the doors out of instinct and wondering where the hell Sam is, Crowley keeps scribbling - first on the concrete below his feet, and then on his bare arms - Dean blinks - there’s _things_ on Crowley’s skin now, thin black vines snaking their way up towards his neck and _twisting_ -

“ _Non timeo_ ,” Crowley suddenly shouts, and his eyes flash hazel, then blue-white.

There’s a curse from the other side of the room - Dean looks past Crowley, now seemingly drowning in a dark cloud and yet furiously, brutally chanting on with his incantation, seemingly uncaring of what that spidery thing’s doing to him, and meets fake Bobby’s eyes in the dim light.

 _What the hell_ , the man mutters at him, and Dean moves his hand to the back of his jeans, seeking the butt of his gun.

But Bobby does nothing, because in this world, whatever Dean wants to do, he can. When he’d ordered Trigger and Nutsy to cut Crowley free, they’d frowned and glared, but they’d also obeyed. And when Crowley had started the ritual, nobody had even thought to question anything, which is - Dean is used to people doing what he tells them, to be honest, but right now he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s even doing, and why he’s trusting fake Cas with this when it’s painfully clear the guy’s not all there, not anymore, and worse, he’s trusting Crowley - he’s trusting _Gabriel_ -

But he’s also trusting Sam.

Because Sam thought this was a good idea.

Dean breathes out.

(And where _is_ that kid, by the fucking way? _Jesus._ )

The darkness surrounding Crowley seems to almost glitter then, as if frozen solid, but the man still reaches up, loosens the vines around his neck. 

“ _Une et plurime_ ,” he hisses, and Dean can hear, almost smell, the fear and revulsion in his voice, “ _manifesti vos facite!_ ”

Nothing, and next -

 _Music_.

Fucking Lyn _Collins_. Dean’s got this exact tape in the car, its title written in a round, feminine hand (Mom’s hand), and -

 _Mr. Big Stuff , Who do you think you are_ , Lyn sings, and there’s a loud noise as a column of white light flashes into existence and for a sudden, horrified moment Dean fears this fucked-up situation is working out even worse than what they’d planned and this is _Lucifer_ crashing down in the empty space between them, because that’s his style, isn’t it, fucking _songs_ and self-satisfied -

But then the light fades, and the man inside it turns around with a graceful twist, ending the song on _When I give my love, I want love in return_ and _fuck_ , that’s _him_ , that’s fucking _Gabriel_ , and he looks exactly the fucking same, down to his stupid haircut and that army green shirt the fucker was wearing when he -

(when he died for them)

\- when he told Dean to take his brother and run.

 _Fuck_.

Gabriel winks at him, snaps his fingers. Dean steels himself, all his senses in overdrive as he expects something to happen - as he waits for - for _pain_ \- and that’s how he sees it at once: what’s happening instead is that Gabriel’s frozen time, or space, or something shitty like that, and everyone in the room is now completely motionless - Bobby about to raise a rifle, Crowley falling back, his eyes closed -

“So here is Buttman,” Gabriel says, taking a step forward. “And where is the Boy Wonder?”

Dean opens his mouth, closes it again. He doesn’t remember, exactly, what it is that Gabriel did to him back in Broward County. He knows what happened, but he - last thing he truly remembers is breaking into the small museum that first night, the look of horrified shock on the thin man’s face as his gun went off and a warm, quiet something washing over him like a tidal wave. 

(Not his worst memory of dying, actually, not even close, and how fucked up it is that he can even think like that?)

But it doesn’t matter, because Dean remembers plenty well how _Sam_ had been for weeks after that - how he’d taken to trying and anticipating Dean’s words once or twice a day even if Dean would roll his eyes at him and _Give it a rest, Samantha_ , ‘cause it was really, _really_ annoying, and Sam almost always got it wrong, anyway, and Dean isn’t as predictable as that and _Shut up, okay?_ And he remembers Sam shouting in his sleep. And Sam waking up with a start in the passenger seat, gasping as if he’d been underwater and immediately turning around to look at Dean - closing his left hand into a fist, because he’d been about to - to what? _Touch_ Dean? Stroke his damn _hair_? That’s just stuff they don’t do, and Sam hasn’t been like that for years and years, anyway - he’d stopped clinging to Dean’s clothes and burying his face against Dean’s chest at age nine, the same summer John had cut Dean’s hair brutally short and told both his sons to fucking grow up already, because a Wendigo had taken a good bite at his leg and _If I’d died, Dean, then what? You boys need to toughen up, ‘cause you know damn well what’s coming for your brother._

So Dean is resentful of Gabriel, also wary as fuck, but he can’t put that into words why, and yet and here it is - a sort of - because Gabriel is _shorter_ than Dean, okay, and also mostly normal, with his frayed jeans and determinedly human looks, but it’s still clear this is someone who could easily destroy an entire city if he wants to - a creature that could lift up Chicago or Boston by their fucking _roots_ and _crush_ them in the palm of his hand as easily and unconcernedly as Dean had squashed that empty soda can back in the kitchen while trying to forget this entire day ever happened.

“Thought you’d be taller,” Gabriel adds; and when he takes another step towards Dean, Dean moves back despite himself, then immediately stands up straighter to cover for it.

“And I thought you’d be less of a dick this time, but here we are,” he says, and Gabriel looks up at him, a playful smile on his pointy face.

“Don’t push it,” he says, pleasantly. “I like you now, but that could change.”

Dean licks his lips, fights back against the sudden wave of nausea.

“ _Like_ me? How do you even _know_ me?”

“I heard of you.” Gabriel’s smile widens as he steps up to Dean, places his open hand on Dean’s chest, right over his heart. “Playing together the way we did - that leaves a mark.”

_Playing._

Jesus _fuck_.

“Why do you even look the fucking same, anyway?” Dean asks, batting the angel’s hand away. “Everyone else is weird as fuck, but you - that your _boyfriend_ you’re wearing?”

 _Why do you have to be such a suicidal dick all the time?_ Sam had shouted at him once; and Dean had Bobby had watched him walk back to the house, slam the door.

_He’s not wrong, you know._

_Shut up._

It’d been a quiet fall afternoon; or, as quiet as things ever got for them, and despite the fight, despite the stitches still straining and pulling at his skin, despite the dull ache of three broken ribs, Dean remembers feeling - at peace, somehow. Bobby’s metal graveyard had been glinting in the fading sun, and Sam was safe (the ghost had gone straight for Dean, and bring it the fuck on).

Bobby had glanced at him, fixed his baseball cap with a disbelieving noise.

_Just look after yourself, boy; that’s all I’m saying._

But Dean couldn’t, and he can’t, and he doesn’t even know why, exactly. He just - right now, he’s spoiling for a fight, hoping to be knocked around and beaten up, and he _knows_ that’s not normal, okay? He _does_. He’s not an idiot, he knows he shouldn’t want that, but there’s still a flash of something that’s too close to relief down in his guts when Gabriel’s eyes flash white in sudden, unrestrained fury.

_Just do it, then. Just -_

But Gabriel doesn’t. He turns around instead, seems to assess the room around them - the small crowd of people who’re probably not seeing any of this, and Crowley, still about to fall down, his arms dirty with chalk marks and fresh blood and old burns.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Gabriel asks, and Dean shrugs.

“Figured _you_ ’d know.”

“Of course you did.”

They weigh each other up for a second, and then Gabriel smiles again.

“Where’s my brother, by the way? His space-traveling antics are giving me a headache.”

It’s immediately, painfully clear he’s not talking about the version of Cas that’s currently chained up in a dungeon - the Cas who looks like Claire and is just sitting there and waiting for death.

Dean squares his jaw, says nothing.

“He’s alive, you know? And - _longing_ for you,” Gabriel adds, cocking his head to one side, as if listening to something, and all Dean can think about is the surprise and plain hurt on Cas’ face as he’d told him to get out of the Bunker and build himself a normal life well away from them both.

 _Fuck_ , if he gets Cas back, he’ll -

But what _can_ he do, exactly? What he’s just told Sam is still true - even if they make it out of here, even if they save their world from Jack’s unsettling and creepy _Botany for Dummies_ powers - yeah, even then there’s a good chance he’ll just drop dead in a week or two. Werewolves, shapeshifters, demons, liver poisoning - take your pick. He can’t ask Cas to - to choose him. Not again. Not when he knows Cas could still do the other thing - either go back to Heaven and be safe and immortal and - and play a fucking _harp_ or something, or get himself what he and Sam were never destined to have.

(A house, a woman. Kids, maybe.

Hell, that’s _exactly_ the life Cas had been reborn into that first time he’d lived as a human, and Dean’s forgotten what the place looked like, he’s forced himself to never even go near that fucking town again, has tried his _hardest_ never to think about that Daphne woman, that bitch who had the fucking balls to just - _to_ \- and anyway, so she’s got to live without him now, big fucking deal, Dean’s done the same at least four times by now, and it’s not his responsibility to fix any of that, to call her and say, _By the fucking way, your weirdass husband was never even human and also he wasn’t yours to take in the first place_ , so he shouldn't feel - guilty - but there’s still a voice in the back of his mind, something that pops up when he sees Cas smile at children and fix his own tie with a determined, grave focus - that Daphne had never - she’d never risked his life, and she’d never made him fight when he didn’t want to, and she’d never begged for his help and then watched as the guy nearly died, again and again and _again_. No, she’d - put clothes on him, and fed him three meals a day Cas wouldn’t have eaten at all, stuff he would have frowned at because _I’m still not hungry, but thank you_ and _Maybe tomorrow_ and she’d walked with him down hospital corridors and watched as he put his right hand on some kid with leukemia and took the sickness away. She’s smiled at him and looked after him and -

Fuck, Dean had wanted to ask whether the two of them had actually - whether -

But she had said they were married.

So, yeah.)

“Look, just cut the bullshit and - bring him back, okay? We just wanna go home.”

( _We are connected, you and I._ )

“I can’t do it. Don’t you know how this works?”

“How _what_ works?”

Gabriel opens his arms wide, as if asking an invisible god for patience.

“Interdimensional travel?” he explains, slowly. “You need an _anchor_ for that. For instance, it was love for your mother that led your brother here.”

Dean passes his hand on the back his neck, looks down.

 _I can’t do this_ , Jack had said. _I love everyone equally._

Mother _fucker._

There's a noise then, and, as if on cue, Sam comes in from a side door, followed by - Jesus - _Eileen_ fucking _Leahy_ , looking _exactly_ like she had in their own world, her dark hair held back in some kind of bun, her clothes showing clear signs of combat and the end of the damn world, and _fuck_ , Dean knows all too well what that’s like - to sew the same tear again and again, to watch the stains of blood spit in your face and fade without ever disappearing completely.

“Speak of the Devil,” Gabriel says, and then laughs at his own joke, and Sam -

 _Fuck_ , seeing the expression on Sam’s face Dean immediately lets go of the _Your fucking idea_ and _I fucking told you_ that have been crowding the back of his brain ever since the room went dark and dangerous and Crowley growled with rage, because Sam is -

Gabriel makes a _Calm down_ gesture at Dean, possibly to signal he’s not about to kill anybody, and then stares at Sam, up and down and up again, as if he’s considering buying him.

“Sam Winchester. You know, I could smell you all the way from 1931,” he says, licking his lips. “Lucifer’s hand, of course, and - a _Nephilim_? My, my. You sure get around.”

Sam clenches his jaw, tosses his hair back.

“1931?” he asks, as if he hasn’t heard the rest of that sentence.

“Golden Age of the lollipop, kiddo. All natural ingredients back then - not a drop of that corn syrup shit they use today.”

Dean sees Eileen watch Sam, wait for his answer. He wonders if she’s deaf in this world as well, thinks about that moment of unadulterated _Jesus fuck_ moment he’d gone through when he’d first realized Eileen was doing their exact job - _and_ doing without being able to hear a damn thing.

“So you’re not fighting. I guess some things never change.”

“Oh, I _did_ fight. I fought and I won and yet this is what I’m left with. Because of you louts,” Gabriel smiles, almost good-naturedly, but, again, Dean feels it in the air - how close they are to an all-out fight with this psycho - and one look at Sam is enough to confirm his brother’s well on his guard as well.

“Cas says you can help us fix this,” Sam says, ignoring Gabriel again, and this time there’s a long beat of silence that festers and clenches around Dean’s heart before Gabriel finally says, “That’s right. Someone’s got to right your wrongs - make sure you clean your room and all that.”

“Yeah, he’s messy. He’s also a very good shot, and all juiced-up right now, so I’d dial it down if I were you.”

Gabriel doesn’t even glance back at Dean. Instead, his eyes move to Eileen for the first time, and his smile widens.

“Oh, I _know_ he is. One dart, one bullseye, am I right?”

Sam steps in front of Eileen, and his eyes flash gold.

“So, do you help us or do I make you?” he asks, icily, and Dean hides his laughter in an unconvincing bout of coughing.

Fucking _Sammy_.

“Hey, I was simply complimenting you on your people skills,” Gabriel says, nonsensically. “No need to get rude.”

Sam seems more than determined to get even ruder, but Eileen puts a hand on his arm, moves around him and frowns at Gabriel as she gestures at him. Dean catches a word he thinks could mean ‘do’, but he was never all that good at ASL. They’d both started to learn a few signs after that first hunt with Eileen, but for some reason, Sam had gotten a _lot_ better a lot _faster_ than him, Dean thinks; and as his eyes move to Sam, he finally sees what he was looking for - a hint of profound pain and regret all over his brother’s face, like rain against a closed window.

( _Do you wanna talk about it?_

_No._

_Sam, she -_

_People_ die _, okay? Let’s just take these bastards down._ )

God _dammit. ___

__“Well, that’s not going to work, sweetheart. I’m not the one who can fix this.”_ _

__“Wait, you’re _not_?” Dean asks, distracted._ _

__“Nope. I’m the knocker. The _doorbell_ ,” Gabriel adds, noticing Dean’s confusion. “You need someone else, and I’m the only one who can call him down.”_ _

__“Death,” Sam says, with absolute certainty, and Gabriel claps his hands in delight._ _

__“Ooooh, broody _and_ smart. Me _likey_.”_ _

__“Let’s just do this.”_ _

__“Wait - what about Cas?”_ _

__“Cas?”_ _

__“He said -”_ _

__“Yes, let’s do that first,” Gabriel says, walking back to Dean and grabbing him by his shirt, almost forcing his head down. “Better to have things squared away before -”_ _

__“ _Hey_ -”_ _

__“ _Quiet_.” Gabriel’s grip tightens, and Dean glares at him, stays still as Gabriel seems to - sniff his hair, almost, and what the _hell_ -_ _

__But then, suddenly, unexpectedly, there is _Cas_ , pushing a door open, and it’s night or some shit and all Dean can see is the back of his head, his sharp profile as he takes one step into an unfamiliar room, looks down at the two people sharing a narrow bed with an old-fashioned iron frame - _Cas!_ \- Dean tries to shout, but his voice’s not working and Cas just stands there, all worried and serious, like he so often gets, and when Dean finally follows his gaze - fuck, that’s _Sam_ right there - asleep, or unconscious, or -_ _

__“Yes, you’ll do.”_ _

__“What -” Dean starts, completely freaked out, as the vision fades; but, before he can say anything else, Gabriel’s plunging one hand directly into his chest, and _squeezing_._ _

__“ _Stop_ that -”_ _

__“Quiet,” Gabriel says again, his voice floating in and out of focus, and Dean has to give up and lean against him, closing both hands on Gabriel’s forearm and fuck, despite his size, the guy’s like a fucking wall - he takes Dean’s weight easily, gestures to Sam with his free hand. “I’m looking for my brother, I’m trying to -”_ _

__“And you’re _sure_ he -”_ _

__“Sure’s my middle name.”_ _

__“But Dean -”_ _

__“It’s how it’s done, kiddo. Not like I’m enjoying it,” Gabriel says, shortly, annoyed, and Dean hears Sam’s voice next, low and angry - and then all is silent._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I miss Gabriel.
> 
>  _Non timeo._ \- 'I'm not afraid.' (or: 'I won't be afraid.')  
>  _Une et plurime, manifesti vos facite._ \- 'One and many, show yourself.'
> 
> So, I hope you liked it? And next week, tune in for some for a freshly-baked pie _hot_ sex scene!


	19. Genesis, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for suicidal thoughts, memories of abortion and general Sam angst. 
> 
> I wanted to focus a bit on Cas' relationship with Sam here, and the downside is that chapter got so long and feelsome I had to cut it in half. The good news is that the second half is marginally more cheerful, and will probably be posted tomorrow or Tuesday - so if you want to read the two things back to back and avoid the unnecessarily sad cliffhanger, maybe wait until _Part Two_ is up?

Sam and Jess have been sitting on Dean’s old couch for one hour and a half now, and Cas still hasn’t listened to a word of the conversation taking place around him. He’s doing his best not to stare at Sam, and that’s why he’s chosen the chair next to Jess, so that he can only just perceive Sam’s profile out of the corner of his eye. 

There is no way to dismiss the heavy, foggy weight of Sam’s soul, though. It drenches the entire room like acrid smoke. 

Closing his hands around his cup of tea, Cas tries and fails to push the wave of feelings back. 

(He’d thought that, after everything, he would have had nothing left to give, but he was wrong. Because Sam is - _ruined_ , and the sight of that ruination is breaking Cas’ battered heart right down the middle.)

“Bella built a diorama last week, let me see if -” someone says, and Cas looks down into his cold tea.

The child is not here, of course, and he suspects that has less to do with his presence than with Sam’s.

“I’ll call Bobby, ask if he can look after her tonight,” Jo had said, a sad, almost embarrassed something around her eyes and mouth, and Dean had just nodded.

It’s not hard to see why a parent wouldn’t want their child around Sam. 

To a human, Sam looks like someone who’s been fighting some kind of drug addiction for decades; and also like someone who’s losing that fight. He’s severely underweight, which is all the more shocking given his tall frame, and his gentle, unfocused expression almost disappears against the gaunt, yellowish skin of his face, which is marked, like his hands, by sores and scars - if Cas didn’t know better, he’d think Sam had lived through a particularly aggressive case of scabies. 

(Instead, Cas understands this without needing to ask, instead those are just marks of whatever part of Lucifer’s Grace that’s still festering inside Sam’s body; it’s that poisonous, evil, _inhuman_ thing trying to get out, and it’s also Sam scratching at himself in a vain attempt to rid himself from it.)

And finally (and mostly), there’s the way Sam moves, the way he exists in the world. How jumpy he is, how he’ll stand up for no reason, or shiver and hug himself, as unashamedly and unconsciously as a small child. How he doesn’t seem able to keep his attention on anything more than a few seconds. _So, you’re the angel?_ he’d said, standing well back, a look of unwilling curiosity and deep revulsion on his face, but then he’d taken off halfway through Cas’ answer - not to be deliberately rude, Cas thinks, but just because some part of his mind had forgotten Cas was still talking. Because despite Sam’s frightfully changed appearance, it’s the loss of his sharp mind that Cas finds himself mourning. That, and the injuries twisting Sam’s soul, slowly tearing it apart.

And he doesn’t need to ask questions to be sure of what he’s seeing. He can read his answer all over Jess’ face -

(Jess: a hard, tired woman whose life seems to revolve around Sam, and whose heart stubbornly clings to better times and sweeter memories - how they met at Stanford, the flat they shared, lazy mornings of love and smiles and pancakes.

In his own timeline, Cas had checked in on her once, long before meeting the Winchesters, and he remembers a stubborn, happy child making flower crowns for her two dogs.)

\- because the horrors of the last eight years are there, as clear and self-evident as written text. 

(Cas glances at her despite herself, then turns his head away again.)

Looking after Sam, running after Sam, worrying for Sam and how he’ll disappear without notice, but also fearing Sam and his occasionally violent outbursts - it’s all there, in the powerful taser Jess carries in her purse, in the recurring old pain she lives with - that of a broken wrist and a ruined knee that never healed right. Cas sees all that, it comes to him like sound and smell; and, most of all, Cas is blinded by a much deeper pain - by how Jess had forced herself to give up on the child she and Sam had conceived - Cas frowns, uncomfortable - four years and seven months ago, in a rare moment of ordinary joy, because what kind of life would that child have had? Jess will never abandon Sam, there’s no conflicted feelings there: she knows perfectly well he can’t help the way he is - that it’s not a matter of seeing a doctor, embracing therapy or anything else - that this is nothing more simple and more complex than Lucifer’s shadow trapping him and crushing him and hugging him so tight he can barely breathe. She knows there is no way out, and she’s thought of it - of killing him, then herself, of driving her unspectacular, unDean-like car over a cliff, like they do in the movies, but she can’t bring herself to it.

Because Sam and Dean saved the world.

Because she loves them both.

(Because, like everyone else, she owes them.)

Cas takes a sip of his tea, swallows it in a mechanical, tired way.

He knows why Jess is here.

There’s a part of her, the part she will acknowledge and be proud of, that is hoping Cas can heal Sam, because of course she’s terrified of angels, but whatever Dean told Jo, whatever Jo told her (“How did she know? Did Sammy -” — “Women _talk_ , Dean.”) made her stop in her tracks and turn around, go back to this car they’re currently living in, back to Sam, still asleep in the back seat. Cas knows Jo had still been talking as Jess put her key in the ignition and turned the engine on. She knows Jo had heard that, but hadn’t mentioned anything, and neither had Jess. That _I’m not sure the angel can do anything_ truth. That _I’m not sure he even_ wants _to_ truth. Because as much as Jess needs Cas to help Sam, and to save Sam, there’s another, smaller and more hidden part of Jess which pushed her all the way inside this house hoping Cas is as dangerous as any of his brothers. Hoping Cas will kill them all.

(As she stared at the white pill, Jess had thought of a name. Harper, maybe. It would have worked both for a baby girl and for a baby boy. It would have been a nod to one of their favorite writers. 

_Harper Winchester_ , she’d mouthed, without quite tasting the words, without letting them truly exist. And then: _Goodbye, sweetpea_.)

“Oh, yeah, and Bobby’s dating,” Dean says, somewhere to his left, and Cas tries to lose himself in Dean’s voice, tries to look up at Dean so he has something to hold on to, but Dean, of course, is distracted.

He’s standing by the window, and as Cas watches, his hand comes up, thumb catching the leather band around his neck, then letting go. Like Cas, Dean is trying not to look at Sam, or, rather, to look at Sam the normal amount, like you do with house guests - his eyes move from Jo to Jess to Sam in a deliberate, exact way, like a metronome, and his soul changes accordingly - a hint of pink when looking at Jess, a stronger pink for Jo, and a confused, intense color for Sam - but the thing is not quite working.

“Dating,” Sam says suddenly, his voice too loud. “ _Fucking_ , you mean. Fucking with his old man’s dick. Fucking. All day, every day. _Fucking_.”

“Sam -” Jess starts, with a resigned, apologetic glance to Jo, but Sam brushes her hand off with a stiff, brutal movement that must have left a bruise.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” he snaps; and then, more quietly, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Her name’s Jody,” Dean goes on, as if nothing’s happened. “She’s a cop. I told him it was a stupid idea, but he’s cleaned out his house a long time ago, so -”

Cas loses track of the conversation again.

The thing is, Sam smells like Lucifer, and there’s enough of Lucifer left inside him that Cas has to fight down his own fears as well as his distress for Sam.

_Let me in, Castiel._

_I understand you._

_I know what you want._

_Castiel?_

… 

_I can give him to you._

_What - what did you say?_

_I can give it to you._

He wasn’t there, of course, when Lucifer was entrusted with the Mark of Cain, and it is forbidden to talk of what he was before; of his bravery on the battlefield, of his beauty. Of the sheer light of his burning halo shaming the Sun and the distant stars. 

Cas has heard the whispers, like everybody else, but those were things said in anger and disgust. Nobody in Heaven really knew. Nobody ever had enough imagination to know what Lucifer must have been like before his corruption - hence Cas’ unwilling curiosity towards Sam Winchester, this one man who’d been carefully engineered over centuries of war and unrest to become Lucifer’s agent on Earth. Because the truth Cas keeps denying to Sam is that Sam was _made_ for Lucifer; that he was made in Lucifer’s _image_. And that’s why the first time he’d met Sam, some things Cas had expected and seen at once - arrogance and pride and a desperate desire to prove himself - but others - others had taken him by surprise. Because this boy whose destiny was to walk down Lucifer’s path was - _kind_. He was reverent and devout. He was, occasionally, as naive as a child. And, above all, he was patient.

(He’d listened to Cas and respected his aliennes in a way even Dean hadn’t, not in the very beginning.)

And maybe that’s what Lucifer had been like before the Fall, but whoever had been in charge of bringing that particular destiny to completion - they had screwed up. Choosing Sam had been a grave miscalculation. Because that side of his character had been the one that had _mattered_. Because unlike Lucifer, Sam had been inherently _good_ all along.

And so -

“Marshmallows,” Sam says, clapping his hands. “Dean, I _want_ -”

“I know, Sammy. I’ve got them.”

Cas catches the understated movement, the offer of comfort - how Jo reaches up and squeezes Dean’s hand as Dean makes his way to the kitchen - and all of a sudden it’s too much. With a muttered apology, he stands up and walks out of the room, out of the house, desperate for - for air, maybe, for skies and frozen galaxies over his head, for -

He can’t _do_ this.

He wants to go _home_.

He doesn’t understand how it even _works_ , can’t see this world as anything else than punishment. He can’t stand to look at Sam and know there’s nothing that can be done to help him. Jess and Jo are clearly uneasy with Cas' presence - Jo had spoken all of two words to him before disappearing on vaguely explained errands, and Jess had avoided his gaze completely. And as for Dean - Dean doesn’t need him, because he never did. Because Dean never had a chance - in this world, he said yes and it nearly killed him, destroyed his brother - and in their own world, Dean -

Cas brings his hand up, touches the tape through the fabric of his borrowed shirt.

Balthazar was right. Everyone was right. Even Lucifer had said -

And it doesn’t _matter_ , it never did, whether Dean would love him or not, whether he would accept what Cas had to offer - a pale, unworthy imitation of a human feeling - or not. Cas is a stranger in the world he came from just as much as he’s a stranger here, and he'd simply mistaken his own weakness for familiarity and affection and -

 _It’s their souls_ , Lucifer had said, leaning against the doorframe of the Winchesters’ kitchen. _We seek them out. We were built to._

 _I don’t know what you’re talking about_ , Cas remembers replying, his eyes passing over Lucifer’s form, registering it as out of place in this replica he’d created inside his own mind, then moving back to the screen of the black and white television in front of him.

 _They want you because they think they can_ use _you. And you_ want _them, Castiel_ , Lucifer had said, unpeeling himself from the wall, _because they smell like dinner_.

He’d examined the rest of the room, then, rapping his knuckles against the steel surfaces as if to test their solidity; tearing an old photo of Sam and Dean from the shelf it was taped to, and letting it drop on the table next to Cas.

_Din din, little brother._

Cas closes both hands on the porch railing, tries to focus on that - the real, solid feeling of smooth wood under his palms.

 _So, you’re the angel?_ Sam had said, and Cas - Cas hadn’t expected any kind of recognition, not after Dean hadn’t known him, because what he and Sam share - that’s closer to an ordinary human friendship, if there is such a thing as an ordinary friendship, but still - but despite that, Cas had looked up at him, had _hoped_ -

 _My name is Castiel_ , he’d said, but he’d seen it at once - Sam’s awareness turning inwards, his soul glittering with blacks and greys and bright green poison - he’d seen a smile on Sam’s face that wasn’t like Sam’s smile at all, and then - then Sam had just walked away, leaving Cas’ next sentence chopped in half and unfinished, and those colors inside his soul - Cas can smell them now, has to keep them out so he won’t be sick, and it’s too _much_ \- it’s - 

_I know Dean doesn’t like it_ , Sam had said on a rainy Friday afternoon as they both sat on his bed, Sam’s laptop on Cas’ knees. _But it’s not bad, right?_

Cas had looked at the lined face of a man pretending to be Thomas Cromwell, and he’d nodded.

 _It’s not bad_ , he’d agreed, listening to the sound of the storm fifty feet over their heads.

 _My recommendation?_ the man had said. _Write only a little, and pray a lot._

 _Is this what they were like?_ Sam had asked, picking up his beer from the bedside table.

 _I was too distracted by the smell to pay attention_ , Cas had answered, because he’d known that would make Sam laugh, and Sam _had_ laughed, and next Dean had come in, complained about Sam’s taste in, well - everything, and taken possession of the laptop.

 _It’s time you learned about anime_ , he’d announced, pushing Cas’ leg to one side so he could sit down, and Sam had groaned.

“Please - _please_ don’t go,” someone says, and Cas almost jumps, shakes the memory off himself like early morning dew before turning around.

Jess has followed him out, and she’s now standing only a few feet from him, her face white and drawn.

“I’ll go,” she says, before Cas can even think of an answer. “I know I’m not - I’ll go.”

She walks past him then, and Cas follows her.

“Wait,” he says. “I - you shouldn’t leave on my account.”

Jess fishes inside her bag for her keys.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” she says, without looking at him. “But Sam - Sam doesn’t know. So just - I promise, I’ll never come back, I’ll never -”

It’s only when she turns to face him that Cas realizes she’s on the verge on tears and frowns in confusion.

“I don’t understand,” he says slowly, and Jess lowers her eyes.

There’s fear, there, and also - shame. Grief.

“I didn’t _want_ to,” she whispers, the words barely audible. “And I’ve prayed, every day since. I’ve prayed for forgiveness. And I know it doesn’t - I know you _can’t_ \- my parents -”

 _You will go to Hell_ , a woman says, her voice full of tears and anger. _Jess, how_ could _you? What kind of mother kills her own child?_

 _Mom,_ please -

_Don’t call again._

Jess presses one hand to her face, and the memory fades. She’s likely not aware of how loudly she was broadcasting it, and while Cas has trained himself not to spy on people’s thoughts, his efforts have mostly been focused on Sam and Dean, and the precise pattern of their feelings. Stepping back from someone else’s soul is much more difficult, especially when it’s someone like Jess, who is used to talk out loud, to Sam, to herself, and has almost forgotten what privacy is.

She’s thinking about the child, Cas realizes, about that jumbled knot of cells that one day could have develop into Harper; about the sister or brother Bella never had. She never told Sam about it, but she did tell her mother, an unhappy, profoundly religious woman who’d been trying for years to get Jess to leave Sam behind - _Sweetheart, he’s an addict_ , she’d say, or, _Sarah Shelby was asking about you the other day - her son is a_ doctor _, you know_ \- a woman who’d endured, just barely, her daughter moving from State to State as she followed Sam’s delusions or got away from people Sam had hurt or looked for a cure, a way to help Sam, but the abortion - that had been the final straw.

And Jess is crying now, a thing of unwilling and chocked sobs, and Cas wonders whether it’d be appropriate to hug her, hates himself when he realizes he doesn’t know, that he’s not human enough, not even for this. 

“They don’t know,” Jess says again, and Cas opens his mouth.

Jess is worried she’ll be punished for ending Harper’s life before it even began. Worse, she’s worried _Sam_ will be punished for her sacrifice, his sufferings magnified or made light of. She’s _terrified_ Cas will refuse to help because that’s how she was raised, and she never saw - Sam never shared with her - she must think angels are judges and executioners of God’s will on earth, she probably assumes Cas walked out of the house because - because he was afraid his virtue would be sullied by her presence.

If only she knew what he’d done. All the ways he’s failed and sinned and given up. All the evil he’s been complicit in.

He looks at Jess as she cries, thinks she wouldn’t welcome his touch. 

( _Personal space, man. Come on._ ) 

He tries to summon any of that virtue she’s silently crediting him with so he can help her in some way. 

_God doesn’t care_ , he’s about to say, and he’s still bitter about that - there’s a hole somewhere in his mutilated body, a place his Father’s love should have been and isn’t - but at the last moment, he thinks of Dean, and the words shift inside his mouth.

“I forgive you,” he says, because that’s what Jess needs; and then: “God loves you, Jessica Moore, and your son is now with Him. He forgives you. He _understands_.”

Jess stares at him, sways and falls down as her legs buckle under her, and Cas finally closes the distance between them, holds her up.

There was a time when this would have come easily to him; a time he had believed he was entitled to give lessons and judge sins from the safety of his celestial status. Now, however, he has to force that behavior to the surface, remember the right words, the right gestures, and, most of all, silence that voice inside him that says he’s got no _right_ to even pretend he’s any better than Jess - that what she did was no sin, so that part is true, but the idea of him forgiving _anyone_ \- the idea of him taking on his role as a child of Heaven after - after he -

“God _loves_ you,” he says again. “ _Salves, benedicta anima tua._ ”

Since he’s still holding Jess with both hands, he leans his head forward, touches her forehead to his and - _takes_ it - her guilt, her pain, her grief - he breathes it all in, and the air shimmers between them, bright gold in the late afternoon light, and for a second, Cas almost feels like himself again, welcomes and mourns this being he used to be, longs for a time when he could do this - when he knew right from wrong, and he could help those who needed help, without doubt, without question - when he was worthy enough to do so.

( _You’re no better than him, Castiel. You’re cursed. You’re not wanted here._ )

Jess is still crying, but it’s a lighter, easier thing - she’s exhausted, that is all, completely drained after eight years of worry and fear and uncompromising love - and that’s why Cas helps her to sit down on the steps and walks back into the house.

There is little chance he will succeed, or even come away unscathed, but either way, it’s very likely he will never see Dean again, never get to tell him how much he mattered and how profoundly he changed everything, which means this one thing - this, Cas will attempt, and if he dies in the process, then he’ll have died for something important, and that’s more than deserves.

“What the hell?” Dean says, as Cas marches back into the living room and heads straight for Sam, but Jo stands up, puts herself in front of him, as if to shield him; and Cas grabs Sam by the front of his threadbare t-shirt, hauls him to his feet.

“You _will_ submit to me,” he says firmly, putting his other hand over Sam’s heart. “You will _obey_ me.”

In the first act that’s even remotely similar to what the Sam Cas knows would do, this Sam fights _back_ \- he does it at once, with determination and fury and skill, and tries everything he can to get free of Cas’ grip - he moves back and punches and trips Cas, but Cas’ hand doesn’t move from his heart, not even as they both fall to the ground, Cas now straddling Sam, pinning him down, because he may be weak and diminished and cursed, but he’s still a seraph, and there’s nothing Sam can do against him.

“Get _off_ ,” Sam shouts, his right hand clawing at Cas’ face. “Get - the _fuck_ \- off me!”

“Cas?” someone calls, and this is Dean’s voice, but Cas can’t listen to it - he hears, as if through fog, Jo’s voice as she talks to Dean, and then Jess comie into the room, her sharp intake of breath, the way she stops on the threshold and takes in the scene in front of her - the broken table, the upturned couch, and Sam now trying to get his feet flat on the floor so he can get enough leverage to push Cas away.

“You _will_ submit to me,” Cas says again, and he’s not talking to Sam - he’s talking to Lucifer now, to whatever shadow of him still lives inside Sam, unwanted and angry and brutally vengeful.

(Because Michael, of course, had simply left; but Lucifer - Lucifer hadn’t forgotten how Sam’s love for Dean had prevented him from fighting back and crushing and hurting his brother, and that’s why he’d done it - why he’d sunk his claws deep into Sam as Michael’s lance pierced him and his truest self was destroyed.)

And Cas can’t truly see it - that’s not how this works - but he knows it and recognizes it and feels it under the open palm of his hand - it’s a heavy, dark mass clutching at Sam’s heart - a thing that gives off a scent that’s almost sweet, but disturbingly so, like fruit left too long in the sun, a thing that’s started to rot - Sam screams as Cas’ hand sinks through his skin and comes to rest directly against the bones of his ribcage -

 _I know you_ , Lucifer says inside Cas’ mind, but this is a memory, nothing more, because Lucifer is dead in this world, and whatever piece of him that’s corrupting Sam’s soul and Sam’s body, that’s nothing, that’s -

 _You and I, we are the same_ , Lucifer says, warmly, almost lovingly, and Cas grits his teeth, starts to etch words of protection and healing on Sam’s ribs. _Rebels. Pioneers_.

 _Talk to me, man_ , Dean had said, after Cas had almost killed that man who’d spoken to Toni Bevell, the man who may have known something about Sam’s location, but Cas hadn’t been able to get the words out.

 _He’s gone because of_ me, he’d thought, staring at Dean, turning his eyes away. _He’s in danger because of_ me. _He may be dead - because of_ me.

And that was true. The only reason Toni Bevell had been able to take him by surprise was because Cas had been weak - shocked by Dean’s apparent death, of course, but also - 

He’d let the Serpent in.

He’d violated the first of his Father’s rules.

He’d submitted.

And Lucifer, he’d -

Cas presses down against Sam’s ribs, smells burning flesh as the Enochian letters appear, red hot, on the white bone.

“You _will_ obey me,” he growls. “You will -”

Sam screams again, and now Cas sees it - Lucifer approaching and seducing Sam, Lucifer promising Sam it would only hurt a bit, it wouldn’t even be that bad, and then - then Dean would be saved, and the Earth would be saved, and _This tale of Good and Evil, Sam, that’s what children learn in school, but you and I - we know better, right?_

 _He told me I was his_ , Sam had confessed once, making the most of Dean’s absence. _He told me I was made for him._

 _You were made so he could be defeated, Sam_ , Cas had replied, after a long while, lying as best he knew how. _You were made to beat him_.

“Dean!” Sam rasps, and now he’s nothing like the man who limped into this house - he’s breathing hard, but he’s alert, awake - and also not himself. Not yet. “Dean, _stop_ him! _Dean_ -”

The fact Lucifer would try to use Dean’s love for Sam is what makes it too much. Cas knows there’s a good chance he’ll die if he doesn’t step back - he can feel his own Grace responding to Lucifer’s, draining out of him and into those runes he’s writing on Sam’s bones - and despite everything, he’s weak enough he was hoping to survive - to make it back - to keep serving Dean, as long as Dean would have him -

 _You don’t get to send me away, Castiel. You’re not like them. You’re like_ me. _They don’t_ need _you, and they don’t_ want _you._

“Dean, _please_ ,” Sam tries, and Cas closes his eyes in regret and slams his Grace against that sickly sweet smell hovering around Sam’s soul.

 _I don’t care about dying_ , Dean had told him, a lifetime ago. _I just want - I want it to_ mean _something, you know? I want -_

Sam screams in Lucifer’s voice, and the walls of the room shake and crack, and Cas presses his left hand over Sam’s face and blesses him as everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The show Sam and Cas were watching in the flashback is _Wolf Hall_.  
>  The description of AU!Sam is based on people I know, so it comes from a place of love and isn't meant to be offensive or dismissive of anyone living with an addiction.  
> Oh, and obviously I'm pro-choice.
> 
>  _Salves, benedicta anima tua._ \- May you be saved, may your soul be blessed.


	20. Genesis, Part Two

When Cas wakes up, at first he doesn’t understand where he is.

There’s an old wooden floor pressed against his back, and an old house raising up around him, and four human souls inside that house - two people are awake, and two are asleep. Cas breathes in the familiar, comforting smell of Dean’s soul before sitting up, a bit gingerly, with a grunt of annoyance.

Everything hurts.

(Pain: something else he was never wired or designed to experience and make sense of.)

It’s only as Cas notices the note someone had left on his chest ( _We didn’t want to move you. There’s food in the fridge if you want anything._ ) that he remembers. The piece of paper falls from his hand, and Cas breathes in deeply as the memory of Lucifer’s ice-cold Grace clenches around his heart, makes it stop for a second.

He’s still in the wrong world, but he’s alive.

He _won_.

Tentatively, Cas reaches out, seeks Sam’s mind.

(Sam is asleep, and he’s dreaming a dream of birds. They are big, colorful things, the kind a child would dream of. Cas lets his awareness blend into Sam’s for a second, and he’s relieved to notice how boringly _unremarkable_ Sam’s body feels. With careful determination, Cas invites Sam to open his right hand, buried under the pillow, and as Sam does it, mumbling in his sleep, Cas checks for damage - he starts at Sam’s fingertips, then slides his mind across the capillaries, the tendons, the expertly crafted metacarpal and carpal bones - eyes closed, Cas stretches out the essence of his Grace all over Sam’s body - like a soft breeze, like a caress - and of course, he sees what he knows would still be there - the insufficient muscle mass, the weakened lungs, a blood pressure that’s still slightly too high - those things will take weeks, if not months, to fix themselves - but Cas also sees what has changed. He touches Sam’s heart, finds it healthy and strong. He touches Sam’s skin, finds it healed. He passes a soft, careful wisp of awareness over Sam’s brain, and, alone on the living room floor, he smiles. The cortisol levels are back to normal.

Sam’s body is okay. 

And as for his soul - Cas’ smile widens in recognition of patterns and colors he knows very well, has studied and learned and repaired in his own world.

Sam’s soul is whole. Pristine, and completely his own.)

Cas lets his breath out, leans sideways against the couch.

Maybe this is why he was sent here.

Maybe there was nothing he could do for Sam and Dean in his own timeline - maybe his task there was over, but here - here, he could help.

(He tries to be grateful for that.)

The room around him still bears the signs of his struggle with Sam, but someone has rearranged the furniture, very carefully, so Cas wouldn’t be disturbed. There is a blanket he’s half dislodged by sitting up, still tucked around his legs and feet. A glass of water on the dented surface of the small table to his right, and a box of aspirin next to it.

Cas smiles again at the sight.

 _His_ Dean knows by now that aspirin is no good for Cas, not nearly enough to make the pain go away, but years ago, that had been his first reaction as well. To try and help Cas as he did Sam, and as he looked after himself. Water and aspirin. A cold beer. A good whiskey. Burgers and pie and an old Clint Eastwood movie.

(The movies, Cas actually liked, and they always made things better - not because of the story, but because someone generally watched them with him. Sometimes Sam, intent and focused and good company even on his worst days; more often Dean, a bit nervous and a bit unhappy, Dean who talked all the way through the movie and explained plot points and complained about bad casting and glanced at Cas, then away, his soul blushing in delicate shades of red and pink.)

Cas sits up straighter. He reaches for the water, takes a small sip.

His misses his own world (he misses _Dean_ ) as he would a limb, but now he’s seen Dean with Jo, he’s almost thankful things were left unfinished between them.

Because this is what Dean wants: a normal life. A family.

He shouldn’t have to deal with someone as broken and complicated as Cas. 

(Cas had been accused, several times, of being too close to the Winchesters; of caring too much. But now he’s felt under his tongue the sacrifices Jess made for Sam when she was given the chance to, Cas can finally brush the last remnants of that disapproval aside.

This is simply what you when you love someone.

You show up, and you stick with them, whatever happens.)

As he puts the glass back on the table, Cas notices two words on the back of that sheet of paper. _Thank you_ , they say, in Dean’s writing.

Cas wonders how long it will take until his Grace is replenished enough to help Dean as well. Months, probably - if it ever happens at all. 

Maybe he could - go back to the cabin? Live there through the winter, heal, and then - come back to this place, push Dean’s nightmares away.

And after that -

 _You should have a shot at it_ , Dean had said, with a forced smile, as he was driving Cas to the bus station. _Normal life, I mean._

Cas had closed his eyes, focused. Tried to see Dean’s soul, feel the vibrant gold color of it.

But, of course, he’d been human then. No more seeing souls. No more -

 _Me and Sam, we’re not_ , Dean had added, but nothing had come after that, and the rest of that trip had passed in complete silence.

_You call me, okay? If you get in any trouble._

Those were the last words Dean had spoken to him before walking back to his car and driving away, and Cas had thought there was a whole other sentence under them, something to do with regret and self-hatred and also some kind of secret.

But, of course, without his powers there had been no way to be sure.

Well, maybe this is it. His chance to ‘have a shot at it’. Here, no one knows him. No one will hunt him down, and no one will miss him. So after he’s healed Dean, he can - try to live a human life. 

(Whatever that means.)

Suddenly forlorn, Cas stands up, stretches his aching shoulders, his mutilated wings, and then makes his way down the corridor towards Sam and Jess’ room. He needs to see Sam, needs to make absolutely sure he’s alright. 

As he stands in front of the door, Cas is momentarily distracted by a conversation taking place upstairs; but, of course, it’s not his place to spy on that. He breathes out, brushes it aside, and walks softly into the room.

As he’d perceived through the walls, Sam and Jess are asleep, Jess pressed up against Sam’s chest. There are tear tracks on her cheek, but she looks peaceful, much younger than she’s looked when she was awake. Cas follows her arm, resting on Sam's waist, then the long line of Sam’s back, all the way to his badly cut hair. He nods to himself.

Sam is okay.

They will both need time, of course - to talk about years of misery and pain, to rediscover each other; time for Sam to tend to his newly healed heart, time for Jess to fully understand that they can have a life together now - jobs, children, a place to live.

 _Cas!_ , Dean suddenly calls, and Cas closes his eyes.

Whatever Dean is talking about, his conversation is with Jo, and it’s private. It doesn’t matter how _real_ Dean’s presence suddenly feels - how Cas could almost step back and lean into him - how _close_ Dean’s soul is, how what’s left of Cas’ Grace reacts to it, instinctively, as inevitably as a summer storm -

It doesn’t _matter_.

 _Cas_ , Dean says again, and Cas breathes out.

He can do this.

He can live there.

Dean, _his_ Dean, would want him to go on, to make the best of what he’s been given, and that’s what Cas will do.

With a last glance at Sam’s sleeping figure, Cas turns around, walks out of the room.

As he stands uncertainly in the corridor, though, he’s suddenly curious to see Bella’s room before leaving - to try and get a better sense of this child who’s both Dean’s and not Dean’s - and that’s why he steps upstairs, peers inside the first door right of the landing, the one with a messy drawing taped to the wood.

( _Mommy. Daddy_ , the letters say, over the painstaking, childish portrait of a green-eyed man and a blond woman.)

The taste of the little girl’s life washes all over Cas like a wave, strong and pure and almost overpowering. It’s memories of bright summer days, and Jo spinning the car around and around as Bella shrieks with laughter, and it’s Dean singing to his daughter as he cooks, Dean turning away from the stove to mime a battery solo with two wooden spoons as Bella joins in, almost tipping a bottle over as she slaps her palms on the table and makes happy staccato noise over the radio. It’s grandpa Bobby explaining the magic of a truck’s engine and why cats see in the dark. It’s stubbornly cheerful letters coming every month - drawings and dry flowers and cards from twenty different States signed _Love, Jess and Sam_. 

(“When is uncle Sam coming again?”

“Soon.”

“Aunt Jess said they got in a fight with a raccoon last week.”

“Does she?”

“Yeah, there’s a drawing. _Look_.”)

This is Bella’s life, and it’s Dean’s life, and Cas - as he stands there and takes it in, he wonders if his Dean will ever have this. It doesn’t seem likely, but, then again, what happened in this world was never likely either. That Dean would recover from his years in Hell. That Michael would let him live. That he and Jo would find each other again, learn each other in this new way.

But back home, Jo died.

And Dean doesn’t seem to love anyone.

(Or, anyone who's suitable.

Cas thinks about Dean glancing up at him as he cleans his gun, some urgent thought on the tip of his tongue; he thinks about Dean smiling instead, a sad, embarrassed thing, before looking down again, his hands steady and graceful on the metal pieces.)

It’s when Cas steps out of Bella’s room and wonders whether he should say goodbye now or stay until morning that he hears it - the sounds coming from Dean and Jo’s room, the same Cas has been deliberately blocking since he woke up because they are not his to listen to.

He stops in his tracks, heart racing.

He doesn’t - he shouldn’t -

It’s _not_ -

Because the thing is, Cas knows about sex. He was there, watching, when the first algae embraced one another in the depth of the lifeless oceans. He understands how the mechanism works, its evolutionary advantages, its drawbacks. It’s a fascinating, extravagant thing to have emerged in this world his Father created, certainly, but he never understood humanity’s complex ideas and taboos around it. For Cas, a person’s sexual history is as mildly interesting as their womb memories, their allergies and their taste in music. And that’s why he’d first touched Dean in Hell - when he’d forced himself into a human shadow so he could talk to Dean and put his hand on him - well - Sam had asked him to explain once, a rash, impulsive question, because _Cas, how did it - what does a_ soul _look like?_ and Cas had opened his mouth, already knowing that English had no words to describe any of it, but then his eyes had shifted to Dean, and -

They’d been in some diner catching an early morning breakfast, Sam wide-eyed and well-rested and picking at two greasy eggs, Dean distant and moody, the tail end of a nightmare still dancing around the corners of his mind (Cas had heard him wake up - he’d felt Dean suddenly sit up in bed and pass his hand through his hair, out of breath and angry and just this side of terrified, and he’d wanted to turn around - to abandon the old 1940s comedy he was pretending to watch with the volume down on two and simply - _touch_ Dean, make the memory of that bad dream go away; but Dean, of course, never wanted that - to be coddled and cared for and _seen_ \- and after a few seconds, he’d settled down again, the music of his soul almost regular, measured, a vague trace of pink forcing its way through the purple and stormy grey, and Cas, well, he’d never moved at all). So when Sam had asked, those other questions somehow very clear in his voice (“How did you get Dean out? How did you _find_ him?”), Cas had looked at Dean first. And Dean had never said anything, but they’d all known at once - Sam had made up a second sentence on the spot, something about auras and what a Voodoo mambo was doing down in Louisiana, and Cas had gone back to folding and unfolding his paper napkin as Dean looked out of the window and scowled at the world.

(“Dean,” Cas had tried, later, almost crowding him against the gas pump, but Dean had raised his left hand in dismissal.

“I don’t wanna know,” he’d said. “I don’t _care_.”

“I just -”

“I don’t remember any of that shit,” Dean had said, in what had been almost the truth, “and in my book, that’s a win, so - let’s keep it that way, okay?”

Cas had looked at him one moment longer, then he’d simply put the crude origami bird he’d been busying himself with at breakfast on the hot metal of the pump and walked back to the car. 

He’d never bothered to watch it come to life and fly away; and he’d never seen the expression on Dean’s face as Dean followed the thing up and up until it disappeared against the bright blue sky.)

But the truth is, when Cas had first touched Dean in Hell, he’d seen _everything_ , and Cas thinks Dean knows, thinks this is why he claims he doesn’t remember and doesn’t want to talk about it. Because he fears looking at his own memories through Cas’ eyes. He fears the moments he’s lost, and he fears what he remembers, and he mostly hates himself throughout. And he’s also embarrassed, Cas always understood as much, even at the very beginning, by the realization that Cas must have seen - _all_ of it. Not only Dean being unkind and rude and mean, or Dean torturing souls, or even Dean yelling at a twelve-year-old Sam and telling him that _So you don’t love me? Whatever - I don’t love you either, you can die in a goddamn_ ditch _for all I care_ , but also Dean - Dean measuring his erection with a chewed pencil and Dean trying to be silent as he pleasured himself under the covers and Dean blushing down to his boxers the first time a woman had suggested they try _that_ and Dean drinking too much to even get it up and Dean imagining, moaning, experimenting with all sort of nasty, depraved, disgusting - ‘cause Cas was an angel, okay?, and _Jesus_ , those fucking books were one thing, but _Cas_ \- and Cas had looked back at Dean and seen those thoughts inside his head and _wondered_ at them. Because it’d made no difference to him. Because he’d seen all of those memories, and he could see Dean was upset and resentful and stubbornly trying not to care, but to Cas, all of those things had simply been - a part of Dean. To him, there was no difference between wrestling practices and those few parent-teacher conferences John had attended (“Have you ever considered - medication?”) and Dean sucking at Robin’s nipples like a man lost in a desert and Dean cleaning his blade on his ruined and torn pants after he’d killed a vampire. No difference at all.

And next, Dean had forgotten. Or, more exactly, he’d gotten used to it. To Cas. To not having a life to call his own, maybe, because after he’d learned the truth about Michael, Dean had finally _seen_ it - how putting his life in Sam’s service as a child had merely been training for the bigger, graver sacrifice that was now required of him.

And Cas had forgotten as well. He’d learned to ignore Dean’s discomfort and step out of Dean’s thoughts and feelings. To learn about Dean and being learned by him. Of course, it’s not in his nature to truly forget anything, and that’s why he’d simply frowned when Sam had once asked him how he managed to file away all that information - deep space and dead languages and his siblings’ true faces and eons upon eons of images and sounds and smells - but he never dwelled on what he’d seen in that dark prison cell. He understood those memories to be private now, and he respected Dean’s untold wishes by not mentioning them and not revisiting them.

But still, he’d never fully grasped why sex should cause so much embarrassment until - until Purgatory. He thinks about it now, as he stands in the dark and nearly silent corridor - how he’d been walking through a clearing when he’d suddenly felt Dean - Dean _touching_ himself. Cas was trying to keep a safe distance between them, but the bond that connected them - there was nothing Cas could do about it.

(Also nothing he _would_ do about it.)

And so he’d heard it all, and accepted it as well-deserved punishment - Dean’s confusion, Dean’s anger, Dean’s terrified, frantic prayers. And later, Dean’s longing, ebbing and flowing like waves on a beach, but ever-present, and growing more painful with every passing day.

And then, suddenly, he’d heard, or felt, Dean’s choice to indulge in a moment of solitary pleasure. Those were the days before the vampire Lafitte had found him, and Dean was alone and sad and convinced he would die in that place and almost certain Cas was dead already, and those quick, efficient movements - his hand undoing the buttons, reaching into his jeans - had felt less a joy than an act of profound and necessary desperation. But Dean had still done it, breathing hard and cursing half words Cas could hear with perfect clarity and presumably keeping an eye on the trees around him, almost unreal in the early morning light, and when he’d come, Cas had felt - he’d felt a stab of shame, deep and unexpected and unmistakably human. 

_Utipaqahne oini shniem uidou ki oirmim_ ; ‘and the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked’, a voice had echoed in Cas’ head, because, to be sure, to spy on someone’s desires, well - that was a kind of nudity also. And that’s how Cas had known he had well and truly Fallen.

(Because sex - because Dean had been right from the start, as he always was. Because sex _was_ different.

And Cas -)

Even worse - despite the horror of the landscape surrounding them both, despite Dean’s obvious pain and distress, Cas had found himself responding to him in a sexual way. As Dean’s desire flooded the invisible chain connecting them, Cas’ human body had reacted accordingly, and it hadn’t seemed to matter that Dean’s action had not been about pleasure at all, but about loneliness and a craving for some kind of comfort. Cas had endured the feeling, wished it away, but from that moment on - from that moment on, something had _changed_. 

(He’d found himself glancing at Dean’s lips, wondering what they tasted like. His eyes had sometimes lingered on base, irrelevant, unworthy things - the shape of random women’s breasts as they walked past him in the street, and that distance slowly closing between two characters in a movie as they leaned towards each other and kissed, the light behind them finally snuffed out. The outline of Dean’s thighs under his jeans. The sharp angle of his jaw, the noises of pleasure he made when he ate something he really liked, and also, mostly, the way he would look at Cas when he thought Cas was not looking.

With self-hatred, with a sort of clinical curiosity, and also, and mostly, with a desperate, unsated _hunger_.)

And this is why Cas can’t resist these moans, and the flickering light of Dean’s soul behind a door that’s slightly ajar - all he knows, all he can think about, is that it’s distracting him, pulling him away, drawing him in; and so Cas gets closer, and stops in front of the open door of Dean and Jo’s bedroom - he stops and blinks and holds that breath he doesn’t need at all, because the room is - because the _color_ of it - because Dean is aroused, hard in his boxers, Cas doesn’t need to see that to be absolutely _sure_ of it, and Dean is ready and willing and unfocusedly yearning for release, and Cas - it’s like walking into a solid wall - it’s like some knowledge that’s always eluded him is finally there, at his fingertips - he’s so _dizzy_ he doesn’t even realize, not until what could be entire minutes, that Dean is not alone. 

(Of course he isn’t.)

As Cas forces himself back into his human vision and gives up the intoxicating smell and vibrant colors of Dean’s soul, it’s Jo he sees first - Jo leaning back on the bed, her breasts and flushed skin hidden by the long-sleeved top of what looks like a washed out men’s pajamas, one arm over her face as she gasps wordlessly, and Dean - Dean is kneeling on the floor, his face between her legs, one hand on Jo’s thigh, the other touching her, pleasuring her, making her happy of that happiness that needs no words at all. And as Dean twists his fingers around and smiles against Jo’s body, Cas suddenly feels it - his own exhilarated, out of control high is obliterated, as if by a switch, as he finally understands what any human would have known at once: that this is a private moment between Dean and Jo, that Cas has no _right_ to be here, to _spy_ on them, that he shouldn’t have come near their room at _all_ -

(That he should have left Dean alone in the first place, because Dean is _not_ \- because even in their world, he and Dean are - because they -)

\- that what he’s doing is unforgivable and stupid and - and worse than that - it’s _ugly_ , and it’s not like Cas hadn’t known before, but he’d never - he’d never imagined, or wanted, to see this side of Dean, not in this primal and undeniable way, he’d never - he doesn’t -

And so he should move away; and he does.

But the second Cas takes a careful step back, Dean looks up - and sees him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there it was. I'm sorry I promised you guys something hotter than this - it was _supposed_ to be hotter, but then those two assholes changed their minds. Better luck next time?


	21. Two Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's been a while, as a reminder: Gabriel has sent Dean's soul into the other world to call Cas back, and he's told Sam they'll need to summon Death, and now they're all awkwardly waiting around for something else to happen. 
> 
> Warnings: several deaths, Lucifer being a dick.
> 
> Also, this chapter explores some of my headcanons about these characters. The translation of foreign words is in the end notes, but maybe I'll remind you guys now of the fact Mary's Hebrew name is Miryam, and that according to an apocryphal Gospel she'd actually had sex with Gabriel and that's how Jesus was born.

In this world, the Watcher has no name.

Gabriel sees her (it) as soon as she enters the room - drags his focus away from Dean Winchester just the tiniest bit so he can look at her with his true eyes and show her he’s here, okay?, he’s here, as he was supposed to, and he’s willing, and he’s not afraid.

The Watcher looks back at him levelly. There is no expression on her face, and her mind is completely blank, shielded from Gabriel’s careful prodding.

Or maybe there’s simply nothing there.

Gabriel wouldn’t be surprised either way.

Those things that are above him on the food chain - he doesn’t like them, and he doesn’t get them. Once, he’d spent a few millennia trying to work them out - he’d been just that _bored_ \- and it’s not an experience he wants to live through again. Because even angels - ordinary worker bees, that is, not his - not -

( _fuck_ )

\- well - even fucking _angels_ had the potential for a spark of - personality. 

Whatever they said, they _did_ want things. Most of them, sure, what they wanted was orders to follow, but that’s still wanting something. And those pushing back against their own shackles, those like Castiel -

(Castiel who’s stubbornly ignoring Dean’s attempts to make him _look_ , Castiel who’s focused on Sam Winchester instead, who’s checking Sam’s newly repaired nerves and brain for damage; Castiel who’s also smiling at Gabriel from six hundred feet of concrete corridors and steel doors and protective runes, and that’s half a mindfuck in itself.)

\- they are almost interesting. Not as interesting as humans, of course, and they don’t smell nearly as good, but still - they can be reasoned with, and are (occasionally) something dangerously close to good company.

Gabriel moves his hand around Dean Winchester’s heart, feels it speed up under its touch like a frightened rabbit’s.

Yes. 

Humans.

There’s just _something_ about them, dad hadn’t been wrong about that.

But those other things - things like the Watcher, things like Death and the other knights, things like the legendary, and probably made-up, Guardian of the Empty - if Gabriel thought less of himself, he’d admit he probably isn’t smart enough to understand how those things even think. They’re a different species, and him trying to empathize with them, or even having a fucking _conversation_ with them - that would be like a green iguana chatting up a human being.

Useless.

Unfunny.

Not pre-approved by dad’s stupid plans.

The Watcher is not here to be his _friend_. She’s here to check he’s doing his fucking _job_.

 _Well - I’m wrist-deep in Dean Winchester’s chest, and I’m about to tear out Sam Winchester’s heart, so you can fuck right off_ , Gabriel thinks, with as much irritation as he can muster, and the Watcher stares at him a moment longer before turning away.

“Your mother has been found,” she says, to Sam, and Gabriel feels it despite himself - how the man’s soul flickers with relief, how there’s a new light inside him now, that impossibly human thing they call hope and name children and cities after and Gabriel will never, ever understand how they even manage to feel it in the first place.

Haven’t they been paying attention?

“Is she okay?”

“She is. She will be here soon.”

Yeah, so that’s a lie, but Sam’s too distractedly relieved to notice - he turns and hugs the woman by his side, Eileen Leahy, his hand lingering against the back of her head in a gesture that’s very close to stroking her hair (but not quite there); and when Dean mutters a string of unconnected syllables, Sam looks up again, speaks directly to Gabriel.

(As if they’re _equal_ , that is. As if they know each other at all.)

“So, how does it work?” Sam asks him, and the Watcher takes a step back, silent and severe and completely out of place in her red dress, almost melts into her human form as the people around them start, oh so very slowly, to regain awareness of their surroundings.

“How does what work?” Gabriel replies, momentarily distracted by a _very_ interesting conversation that’s going on in the other world.

(Castiel: always in the wrong place at the wrong time, in every known and unknown universe.)

“Well, I - in this world, Lucifer and Michael killed each other. That’s what they told me. So the Apocalypse should have been over. And it’s not, is it? It’s -”

The man stops talking, and Gabriel carefully blinks himself away from Dean’s soul, turns his attention to the other brother.

He’s - _remarkable_ , Gabriel concedes, unwillingly. There are so many wounds on him, it doesn’t make much sense he’s even alive. And yet, here he is, and he’s - because when Dean had taunted him, Gabriel had smelled the fear inside his voice, but Sam - Sam _believes_ in what he’s saying. There’s Lucifer’s kiss on his forehead, as bright and vicious as a fresh burn, and Castiel’s writing all over his ribs (no frills there: Castiel had always been almost disappointingly serious). There’s a part of demon in him too, the faintest hint of black _shedim_ blood, and - of course - the golden light of the Nephilim shining around him like an aura, shielding him, firing him up. Sam Winchester is the closest to Heaven a human has ever been, and yet Gabriel thinks he’s never seen anything more human than this man right here - this man now glaring down at him, his right arm slightly outstretched as if to protect the woman by his side, his jaw locked, his feet already in position, like a fencer or a dancer or one of those warriors of old Gabriel misses so much - he’s ready to take on an archangel, this beautiful fool, and he knows he can’t win, and he doesn’t even care. 

“What _happened_? What happened is that your brother killed Death,” Gabriel says, slowly. “To save _you_ , demon boy.” 

Sam clenches his fist, doesn’t drop his gaze.

“So?” 

“So Death can’t be killed.”

Gabriel suddenly sees it through Sam’s memories, because they’re simply too strong to be contained, even for one who’s refined not feeling anything and not talking to anyone into an art - he feels his own body aching, and the weight of an unbearable sadness darkening his mind and heart. He’s in an old cantina with skeleton frescoes on the walls, and he can smell fried food and mold and the unpleasant, familiar tanginess of his own blood; Gabriel blinks Sam’s eyelids, looks up at Dean, like Sam had done, and he thinks Sam’s memories - he thinks of Dean kneeling down to tie Sam’s shoes when they were both children, and he thinks of Dean smiling at him and patting his hair and _I’m here, okay? I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you_. Dean is so _young_ in those memories Sam had felt rushing through him back then - a child of ten with badly cut hair and a rib that was healing wrong - and yet he’s also, inevitably, unmistakably so, the unhappy man now standing by his side, and Gabriel knows, without needing to look, that there are faint lines at the corner of Dean’s eyes now, and just a hint of grey dotting his stubble, and his hand contracts around Dean’s heart as he takes it in, because _this_ \- this is the mystery and the beauty of these creatures his father made out of clay and spit.

How they change, how they stay the same.

“But he - we didn’t -”

Gabriel breathes out, and the past shatters around him like fog.

“Death can’t die,” he says again, and now there’s a horrified flash of understanding in Sam’s clear eyes.

“If he’s asleep in one world, he’ll be awake in another,” he whispers, and Gabriel looks him up and down again, very reluctantly impressed.

“Not how I would put it, but yeah, pretty much. Your brother stabbing that son of a bitch - that pushed him right here, made him _my_ fucking problem. There we were - kings to a pile of ashes - when it all went to shit again, and Raphael -”

It takes a lot of effort, but Gabriel stops talking.

“Raphael what?” Sam asks, after a full minute, and Gabriel feels the blind eyes of the Watcher upon him.

 _Dying won’t enough_ , she’d said. _If you are reaped, what good will that do?_

 _For one, I won’t have to see your ugly mug ever again_ , Gabriel had replied, but he’d still known where this was going. He’d just fucking _known_.

# ~

There is, Lucifer thinks, only one difference between the two breeds of monkeys: one longs to be locked up, and the other doesn’t. 

Free will is not part of the equation. 

In fact, free will is not even a thing at all - just an elaborate scam. Human beings are no different than chickens and ivy. They are - arguably - more sophisticated, but at their core there is that same system of nerves and hormones and electrical impulses flashing up and away; forcing them to make choices, making them stay or run or give up. 

No, humans aren’t special because they can _think_. Humans are special because they want someone else to think for them. Put a wild animal in a cage and it’ll kill itself trying to get out, but give any man a set of rules to follow and he’ll thank you on his knees. 

This is why Michael didn’t survive the cage, and Sam Winchester did. The taste of his brother’s slow descent into madness and despair has never quite faded from Lucifer’s mouth, and there’s bitterness in that, because whatever their differences, there had been a bond there - something neither of them had known how to break.

(Or wanted to.)

No, there was always a distinct shade of sadness in the thought he was the only one left. Gabriel had been the first to go, of course, that useless horse-fucker. And then Raphael. And Michael, in every way that mattered. And now -

But there is no use in dwelling on the past.

Lucifer sits up straighter in his chair, smiles at the two men who’ve been ordered to wait here with him, escort him to see Sam. The woman in the red dress had not been fooled, of course - she hadn’t been a woman at all - probably a Reaper, or one of those other monsters his father had inflicted upon this world - but whatever she was, she’d _seen_ him. Lucifer had felt her blind eyes move on his true form, and he’d stood there, tall and defiant and ready to kill her, if necessary, and murder his way inside the building.

He’d expected her to say something. Anything.

Instead, she’d just nodded, asked him to wait. Lucifer isn't worried - he doesn’t think she cares enough to warn Sam - she’s just a thing, and most of them have enough sense not to interfere with preordained events.

And fuck, his taking of Sam Winchester - that will be destiny unfolding, nothing more and nothing less than that.

Of course, Sam will refuse to be taken.

Again.

In fact, like his stubborn, stupid mother, it’s likely he will rather _die_ than help Lucifer out of this shithole, and that’s why Lucifer will need to be careful. Distractedly, he brings one hand up towards the chain around his neck, fingers the ring that’s hanging there, and thinks.

He first saw Mary on December 5th, 1954. Alone in the Cage, he’d closed his eyes and watched Samuel’s wife cry out in pain and exhaustion as a red, frantic, _ugly_ baby was pulled out of her body with shiny forceps. Lucifer never had any interest in Mary: what he’d seeked, in her dark violet eyes, had been Sam’s eyes. He’d looked and looked, whispering and chanting to keep the connection open, but those had been - ordinary human eyes. Confused and sleepy and utterly uninteresting. No, Mary had been eight weeks old when Lucifer had finally perceived his own future vessel inside her. Because when the baby had smiled her first true smile, her soul had lit up in something that had been endearingly, precisely _Sam_ \- or, rather, something that was her own for now but would one day become Sam's; and Lucifer had latched on to that color, to the taste of it under his tongue; he’d passed it around and around in his mouth in the darkness of the Cage. And finally, with a sigh of profound satisfaction, he’d opened his eyes, looked up, fancied he could see Sam looking down at him in awed devotion.

 _Soon_ , he’d told himself. _Soon_.

And that is why whatever he recognizes in this body, he knows because of Sam. Nothing more. He has no _idea_ who Mary Winchester even was, what she'd wanted and thought and dreamed about, and that’s the reason he’s had to break yet another rule and force himself inside a dead body like a common demon. Because he hadn’t _known_ Mary, and after weeks and weeks and weeks, when he’d finally found her again, thinner and angrier and tired to the bone, he hadn’t seen it coming. Because even then, in an alien world of dust and ashes, he hadn’t been looking at her - never that. He’d been looking, through her, at _Sam_.

 _I_ will _go back_ , he’d told her, _and I’ll rule the world, and eat your children. You cannot stop me_.

 _How will you even go back? We’re stuck here_ , she’d replied, and it’d seemed - desperate, almost. No doubt she’d been trying to find a way back herself, was sure she’d die in that place.

 _Your soul can serve as an anchor_ , he’d said. _That’s how they will get here. And once we are all reunited, you’ll be the perfect bargaining chip. Doesn't the Lord work in mysterious ways?_

He’d seen no reason to lie, because he does not lie. This is something nobody, not even his brothers, had understood: the power there is in telling things exactly as they are.

He’d also never considered Mary Winchester would rather kill herself than allowing her children to be endangered, but that was what she’d done - a straight blow under the ribs, directly through the heart, no last words, not even a resentful silence. She’d simply crumbled in front of him, and Lucifer - he’d tried grasping for her soul so he could tether it back to Earth, but this was not his world, and he had no power over its cogs and gears.

“You can come with us now,” one of the men says, and Lucifer stands up, stumbles slightly as he adjusts his control over this new body, and follows them.

The place is well-defended and heavily warded, but not enough to keep him out, or dull his perception in any way. In fact, after a few minutes Lucifer starts to smell the distinctive, alluring lights of Sam’s soul - he’s been watching Sam for so long, ancestor after ancestor, that he knows it by heart, could recognize it anywhere.

There is something - unusual about it, but surely that’s just Mary’s dead body weighing down his senses.

Lucifer picks up the pace, stills his worries.

Because Sam carries the signs of Lucifer’s own child, but that’s not - that’s not a problem. Of _course_ the Winchesters would have found him, tried to tame him. That’s what they do. Lucifer will deal with this later.

No, it’s only as he lays eyes on Sam that Lucifer realizes his original plan (to simply pretend to be Mary until they leave this place behind) will not work, _cannot_ work, because Sam - because the boy had _sex_ , planted his _seed_ in some unchosen, unworthy _heifer_ , and he had no _right_ to - because he’d once refused him, because he was _supposed_ to be the end of his line, because - Lucifer’s mind shifts and changes and flares up in vicious fury - because Sam was supposed to rule the entire universe from a throne of cold ice, with _him_ , forever.

(Because he’d been _made_ for that. For _him_.)

But now - Lucifer sees it at once, his eyes are drawn to it - this spark of life which flickers in the same exact colors of Sam’s soul, bright blues and curious purples - he moves his gaze upward, distracted, incredulous, still mind-blowingly angry, and watches the woman who’s dared to take from Sam something he’s never quite managed himself - watches their encounter through Sam’s scattered memories, bright bits of images shaping and dissolving inside him like strong, staccato music - sees him blunder inside a changing room, sees the woman there, her breasts partly uncovered, her damp hair falling in loose waves around her face - and now Sam’s turning around, blushing, stuttering, his heart split down the middle for some reason Lucifer can’t understand - he hears the woman speak, her voice slightly distorted, as if she’s underwater - _You can be a gentleman if you like, but then I won’t see what you’re saying_ \- and Sam smiles, then laughs, turns back again, his eyes down, then up, his body hot and cold and hot at the way she’s looking at him - and it’s _her_ fault, all of it, Lucifer sees it clearly, clenches Mary’s fists inside the pockets of her battered jacket, because here she comes, her back straight, her heart fluttering with determination, her hands undoing the practical, army-issued towel until finally she’s standing in front of Sam, unashamedly and uncomplicatedly naked, one hand reaching up in a half-finished gesture before she says, _I lost two men today, and I need to not think about that. Will you help me?_

Lucifer takes a breath he doesn’t need, forces himself to notice the rest of the room - Gabriel is there, and what has he ever done to deserve this, and also - is that _Crowley_? Crowley the demon, only he’s not a demon anymore, and Dean, of course, so easy to despise, so hard to kill, teacher’s pet Dean, and Lucifer will _never_ forgive him for holding his father’s attention as long as he has.

But: focus.

He needs to get out of here.

Revenge can wait.

# ~

“There was something wrong about him,” the angel had said, her head bowed.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Gabriel had walked around the ruined room, his eyes following the precise, intricate etching of his brother’s wings against the white walls.

Raphael had been the most prudent of them all. A recluse who’d never interfered with the affairs of the world they’d inherited. 

When he’d said he would go and talk to Death, Gabriel had been surprised.

He’d been even _more_ surprised when he’d felt his brother call out in agony, his presence flicker out of existence like the last drops of dew in the morning sun.

“So did he bother to - give a reason for this? For everything that’s been happening?”

The angel had shaken her head. Annoyingly, she’d still been kneeling on the floor - most likely the consequence of Michael’s teaching, the deluded, tyrannical freak. Gabriel had told them all to just fucking stand up already, but there was simply no talking to them.

“Well, _you_ saw him. What do you think?”

 _Fuck_ , that had been the wrong question. Gabriel had been away for so long, both in space and in time, that he’d forgotten angels don’t like to have opinions. 

_Don’t like_ \- what a euphemism. Some of them were likely not capable of it.

“Zophiel - come _on_. You know what I mean. It’s not like Death to -” Gabriel had gestured, left his sentence unfinished. 

It hadn’t been just about Raphael. _Fuck_ Raphael. The problem there had involved everything fucking else. Lucifer and Michael had caused storms and hurricanes, flattened a couple of countries with their stupid fight, but that had been over for _years_. They were _dead_ , both of them, and nobody had won, and the apocalypse hadn’t come and dad hadn’t even _bothered_ to show up and everything was supposed to be fucking _over_. 

Gabriel didn’t like it there.

He’d wanted to go _home_.

But that, of course had been off the table, because Death had suddenly freaked out and decided to kill everything, and what the _fuck_.

Zophiel had shifted, uncomfortable.

“He was - different,” she’d said in the end, and Gabriel had rolled his eyes.

“Okay. Different _how_?”

“There was - more of him.”

“The four of you - you were supposed to balance his power,” a new voice had said, and Zophiel had lowered her face in fright, and Gabriel’s sword had suddenly appeared in his hand, a live presence, an extension of his own Grace.

“Who are you?” he’d asked the woman with the red dress, but she hadn’t answered.

“Where once there was one, now there are two,” she’d said, ignoring him. “Trapped in the same body, clawing to get free, unknowingly destroying everything around them.”

Gabriel had just stared.

“You need to stop him, Gabriel. In this world, this is your life’s purpose.”

“I can’t _kill_ Death,” he’d heard himself say. “Death _can’t_ be killed.”

A pause.

“But you can.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You are the last one. He _yearns_ to reap you. When you die, he will be by your side.”

“Zophiel, get the _fuck_ out of here,” Gabriel had said, in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation. “Come on - _scoot_.”

The woman had kept watching him, though, because this was her nature. She was a Watcher, Gabriel had realized, and they were - fixers. They knew things, and they cleaned up everybody’s messes, and even if he’d wanted to, it would have been futile to even discuss her orders. She could see much farther into the future than he could ever hope to. She would outplay him at every move.

“Are you _listening_ to me? I can’t kill him. What good would -”

“Death needs to be healed. One will stay here, the other will be restored to his own world. That is the only way.”

“I told you, I -”

“You need to unleash the power of a Nephilim,” she’d said, ignoring his half sentence. “If a Nephilim kills you, Death will be there, and that most sacred light will make him whole.” 

“That’s -”

“Or, rather, divide his essence back to its true nature.” 

“Do you have any _idea_ how long it takes to make a Nephilim?” Gabriel had asked in disbelief; and then, with a stab of sadness, he’d thought about Miryam - about the child she’d been, and how they used to play together in the courtyard of the temple.

 _Come catch me, dodi_ , she’d said, a thing of six years of age, wild and joyful a completely unaware of the brutal destiny God had written for her.

That had been why Gabriel had chosen to walk away. Because he’d been tricked into befriending the child, in guiding her steps and soothing her nightmares, and he’d never known that had actually been a seduction all along.

 _She knows you now. She may even love you_ , his father had said when Gabriel had complained. _Doesn’t that make it easier?_

“A man carrying the life essence of a Nephilim is already on his way to you,” the Watcher had said, her voice still quiet and measured and completely unaffected, as if she was discussing some unimportant matter.

“Yeah? Who is that?” Gabriel had asked, pushing those painful memories of Miryam away from his mind.

“You will know him when you see him.”

“Great.”

“That essence - it will need to be freed.”

Another pause.

“Gabriel, _ha’elyon_? Are you listening?”

Gabriel had looked at her, then through her. For the first time in a long time, he hadn’t known what to say at all.

# ~

As he finally looks at Sam, Lucifer thinks this is not even fury he feels. It is not _any_ human feeling.

(It is not jealousy, either.

It is not - not _love_. Most _definitely_ not love.)

Sam is _his. Rightfully_ his.

And what is most infuriating here is that this isn’t even what Sam _wants_.

Because Sam - 

Because Lucifer had tried that - he’d offered Sam a child, once. Back when they were circling each other, back before Sam got all proud and tried pretending he hadn’t enjoyed becoming prey and being toyed with. Lucifer had been wearing - not Jess, that night. No. Someone else. A non threatening woman with whom Sam shared no memory whatsoever. Lucifer had created that shape from scratch - he’d delved into Sam’s mind, watched images of all the women Sam had ever found attractive - all those nameless bodies that had passed him on the street, all those times he’d blinked and barely noticed a half thought forming in his mind, because attraction - what Lucifer has learned by watching humans is that attraction is at its most powerful when it’s unspoken and unacknowledged. 

(That’s when you can’t defend yourself, because you don’t realize, not yet, that you’re at war.) 

And Sam - he’d been sitting on the bed, his gun pointed at Lucifer, his mind and heart a mess of things, when Lucifer had _changed_ \- done away with the man’s body, away with his broad hands and sad eyes, and shifted into this carefully crafted woman that was the subconscious focus of Sam’s testosterone and vasopressin - and there it was, proof that humans were just _that_ easy to control - as Lucifer’s vision readjusted to his now smaller size, he’d seen Sam’s eyes widen, the gun dropping, just a fraction, turning into a pretty object catching light, and nothing more.

 _I could be this, for you_ , Lucifer had said, looking at Sam, then away. _I could be everything you’ve ever wanted. Because I love you so._

The gun had lowered another inch as Lucifer made his way towards the bed, knelt on the generic, cheap bedspread and crawled closer and closer to Sam, finally sitting astride his thighs, the muzzle of the gun pressing lightly against the bare skin of his breasts.

 _You don’t have to be unhappy_ , he’d whispered, leaning closer to Sam’s face, revelling in the bright colors shooting off Sam’s soul like fireworks. _You can choose joy_.

Lucifer was never the reflective type, but he’d known solitude in his long life, and he’d often been awarded a lot of time to think, and remember, and consider his mistakes. And so he’d dwelled over his seduction of Sam for days, for weeks, after Castiel had snatched the boy’s soul back up and Lucifer had been left with the dubious company of his brother’s slowly unspooling mind. Because, of course, Sam had said yes to him in the end, just like Lucifer had known he would, but he’d done it for the wrong reasons. He’d done it because he’d thought he could _win_. That he could ever be an archangel’s equal. Lucifer had wanted to be welcomed and loved, but his plan had failed, and whenever he tried to put the pieces back together, he invariably ended up right here in this moment - a quiet evening in a cheap motel somewhere in Idaho, and this shape he’d created to tweak and readjust Sam’s response to him. He remembered the blunt, heavy feeling of the gun’s muzzle against his body, how the thing had been obedient and unresponsive in Sam’s hand. He thought about Sam never closing his eyes, not even when Lucifer was kissing him, slow, light, only just. He thought about Sam’s sharp inhale when Lucifer had pushed his own face against Sam’s, like a cat, all the while inching his hand on Sam’s thigh, closer and closer to where Sam wanted and did not want to be touched.

He could have _won_.

Right there, he could have won.

But then - Lucifer doesn’t know why he’d said that - he’d seemed like a harmless thing to say, a way to put into words a vision Sam had often indulged in before Jess had died, and sometimes after that, in short, uncertain, guilty bouts of feeling.

 _The past won’t matter_ , he’d said, against Sam’s hair. _We’ll have a house, a garden full of flowers._

And then:

 _I’ll give you children, Sam_.

And before the words could disappear into the half darkness of the room, Sam had finally reacted - the gun had gone off, piercing Lucifer clean through, spraying Sam’s face and chest with shockingly red blood - Lucifer had been so surprised, he’d allowed himself to be pushed back by the momentum of the bullet, had landed on his back on the dirty motel carpet, the true shape of his vessel poking through the fake one like bones through broken skin, Sam’s soul a storm of fierce grey around them both, his right hand cutting into his own skin as he turned to the wall to draw a banishing sigil - _You think you can say no to me? You were_ made _for this_ , Lucifer had hissed, barely noticing the angry tears on Sam’s face before vanishing from the room.

# ~

Gabriel sees it at once, of course. He’s weak with the effort of keeping Dean’s awareness in a different world, and the blind gaze of the Watcher on the back of his head, that doesn’t help, either, but still - whatever happened, Lucifer is his _brother_ , and Gabriel would know him anywhere. There is no life in this woman he’s wearing, and that is a sin - it makes Gabriel’s skin crawl, the idea of stepping inside a dead body, of feeling all that wet and rotting weight against his own true shape, but Lucifer had always been _different_. For all his protestations, he’d always been the one to seek out these - these earthly enjoyments, these perversions - the one to walk in full sight among humans, the one who’d pushed into their dreams and whispered threats and promises and sweet nothings against their lips. Michael and Raphael had never bothered with any of it, and as for Gabriel himself -

(There had been only one exception for Gabriel - long-haired Leif, the outcast, the _seiðmaðr_ , blessed and cursed to be an archangel’s true vessel, now and forever. 

Humans would call Leif his soulmate, or the love of his life, but that would be painfully inaccurate, because Gabriel has no soul, and cannot love.) 

Gabriel clenches his jaw, Leif’s jaw, and glances at Dean, checking his vitals, before turning back again.

So they’re all here now. 

It can begin.

(It’s over.)

“You touch me, she dies,” Lucifer is now saying to Sam, stretching the woman’s mouth in a playful smile, and Sam freezes.

It’s unsettling, really, just how focused they are on each other, because there’s no - no bout of feeling there, not even recognition - just a dark, dead thing Gabriel doesn’t really want to try and understand. He’s keeping his mind carefully blank, acting as if he’s not noticed Lucifer at all, and Lucifer is buying it - Gabriel had felt a tendril of thought against his forehead, cold and curious, but that had lasted only for a second. Astral projection is complicated, after all, and indirect astral projection - pushing a human soul through a portal - Lucifer probably assumes that requires all of Gabriel’s attention, because he was always like this - uncaring of others’ abilities, overestimating his own might in a world he had chosen to leave behind thousands of years ago.

They are the last ones.

The thought speeds through Gabriel’s consciousness, there and gone again like a sound of anguish.

Because there is still _time_ to stop this. To walk away together, settle in a place that’s not burning up with desolation and the stench of decay - they wouldn’t bear each other’s company for long, of course - Lucifer would find a way to keep himself busy and Gabriel could just - 

Life is so ineffably _beautiful_.

Even after all this time, Gabriel knows exactly what he likes, what he’ll miss. What he’s been missing for centuries now -

_the hidden music of mountains being born_

_a gigantic thing, not yet a bird, flapping its wings over a silvery ocean_

_Miryam’s face, her wide eyes, the color of her soul as she looked down at him, and put her right hand against his hair, softly, as if she didn’t want to hurt him; how her heart had quickened as she’d offered her palm to him, helped him to his feet_

_what humans had taken to calling Ursa Major, and the cold light of its stars against his skin_

_spring gently melting into summer_

_and the smell of Leif’s skin, a wild, musky, profoundly_ human _thing Gabriel had tried to lick and bite off him for decades as Leif laughed and gasped and moaned and stared up at those stars he’d known as the chariot of the lord, never knowing how Gabriel had liked to fly and slumber in the dark sky around them before meeting him_

\- what he’ll never see again after his true death, because he’ll be gone from this world, and from all others, and as Dean’s heart almost stops under his fingers, Gabriel finds himself wondering, just for a second, if the Empty is actually real - if he’ll be reunited with his brothers, if his father’s there, if the stories are true and there’s a garden waiting for him somewhere, the grass made liquid silver by the light of the full moon.

But stories are never true.

Hell, he should know.

“I’ll let you speak to her now,” Lucifer says, “as a sign of good faith. And then you’ll use those golden eyes of yours to get us out of here, how’s that?”

“Mom?” Sam asks, ignoring him, and the woman unknowingly carrying his child steps closer to him, takes his hand.

# ~

Lucifer blinks.

He tries to remember how to love Sam, how to _truly_ love him, because this is what mothers do, isn’t it?, and he should be able to fake it, at the very least.

It shouldn’t come so _hard_ to him, but he’s - distracted - he’s weighed down by this dead body he’s wearing, by the flickering and weakening of his own Grace, drowned and drained by a world that’s not his own, by Gabriel’s silent, faraway presence in the center of the room. By Sam himself, perhaps, who is and is not the human boy who’d once pushed him inside a cage. By the life he’s managed to create against all odds.

He lowers his head, breathes in, tries to feel the taste and shape of Mary Winchester’s voice under his tongue.

He needs to get this _right_.

“Sam?” he asks, looking up again, and there, right there, is what he was seeking - recognition and worry and love in Sam’s eyes, and _finally_.

“Mom?” he asks again, and Lucifer takes a tentative step forward.

“How did you find me? Why are you here? Sam, this is too _dangerous_ -”

“We’re getting you home,” Sam says urgently, subconsciously mimicking his stance. “Dean is talking to Cas right now, and then we’ll -”

He never finishes the sentence, and if his eyes stay fixed on Mary’s, his soul doesn’t. Lucifer sees it turn the light, poisonous grey of approaching storms as Sam thinks of the woman by his side, of the man who calls himself Four (and Lucifer remembers him well from his own world, and he’d be glad to kill him again, the old fool); of the demon who is no longer a demon, and of everyone else - of people he can’t even see and knows nothing about, of people who’re doomed to die in this world without light - because of _him_ , Sam is sure of this, because of his pride and his unthinking ambition to shield his brother at all cost.

 _Interesting_.

“We need to go. _Now_ ,” he says, in Mary’s no-nonsense voice, and Sam reacts to the tone, as Lucifer had known he would - stands up a little straighter, glances back at his brother.

Always waiting for orders, all of them. Yearning for direction, demanding to be enslaved.

“Gabriel says - we can save them. We need to complete a ritual, a - a spell, something, and I’ll - I’ll open the portal right after that. It’ll be okay.”

 _No_. Not this _shit_ again. Lucifer is _not_ going to wait here for Dean to come back from wherever the fuck he is - for Gabriel to wake up and challenge him - he needs Sam, that’s his safe passage back home, but he’s not sitting here waiting for Sam’s heart to bleed dry over the destiny of people he doesn’t even _know_.

“Sam,” he says, taking another step forward, looking up at Sam’s familiar face, a bit older now, a bit more hurt than Lucifer remembers. “All I need is you boys. I want you to be safe. And we’re not safe here. We need to go. Please, _listen_ to me.”

And there it is - the first flicker of doubt in Sam’s eyes. Because his mother, of course, Lucifer doesn’t know Mary all that well, if at all - never bothered to get to know her during all the time he’d spent watching her, collecting every small sign of Sam, holding it up to the light as he counted the days until he would be free, but Mary - Mary would be like Sam, wouldn’t she? Mary would be like Sam, like Dean, like her idiotic drunkard of a husband, Mary wouldn’t _want_ to flee from any battle if she could save innocent lives by staying. And now Sam’s starting to doubt that this is really his mother speaking to him, and Lucifer can’t resist hurting him again, just a bit, just for fun, before moving on to threats and torture and _real_ pain. And that’s why he closes the distance between them and cups his face and kisses him on the lips, full and greedy, slipping his tongue inside Sam’s mouth when Sam gasps in shock, that’s why he fists his hand in Sam’s hair and keeps him right the fuck _there_ when Sam speaks inaudible words of rage and disgust and tries to get away.

 _Mine_ , Lucifer thinks, directly into Sam’s beautiful, infuriating, very _fragile_ brain. _You are_ mine.

# ~

 _Mine_ , Leif had once said, straddling Gabriel in a meadow full of flowers. _You are_ mine.

Gabriel had laughed and let him have this - the illusion that an archangel could be claimed.

 _I am, mitt allt_ , he’d answered, smiling at the joy in Leif’s honey-colored eyes, stretching back against the grass.

 _Now_ , the Watcher says, but she shouldn’t have bothered - Gabriel knows this is the right moment. He’d felt it coming, his hand twitching against Dean’s heart, his Grace suddenly too tight around him, like a piece of clothing that’s shrunken in the rain, and for the first time he feels like it wouldn’t be the end of the world to be rid of it - to be free, to let what is left of Leif free as well, to fly with him towards those stars they’d both loved so very much.

Sam has managed to step back, he’s trying, desperately, ineffectively, to get away from Lucifer’s embrace, and Gabriel is close enough to them both now, he’s there and alive and present and this is the _right_ time - he shakes his sword into existence, the sudden weight of it as comforting and familiar as any other part of himself, he lets it slide down his arm until the handle lands in the palm of his left hand, and then he half-turns on himself, swift and graceful despite the weight of Dean’s unresponsive body and how Dean unknowingly stumbles after him - as Lucifer starts to see and understand what’s going on, Gabriel leans against Sam’s wide back, relishing in the human warmth of it, and ends his movement by snapping his arm up - he doesn’t need to see what’s doing, because he’s acutely, painfully aware of his brother’s heart beating inside Mary’s chest -

(Except there _is_ no heart, of course - no heart and no heartbeat, because Lucifer is _not_ human, never was, and this is not the Lucifer he knows, but that hardly matters - they’d still watched the dawn of Earth together, silent and wide-eyed and respectful in an empty sky, and Gabriel -)

\- the silver blade finds its target, and Lucifer falls wordlessly back, his agony like a solid weight against Gabriel’s own Grace, and Gabriel is still touching Sam, he can hear his thoughts of horror and pain and _no no no NO_ , can see Lucifer through Sam’s eyes - a woman with dirty blonde hair now staring blankly up at the ceiling, two black wings etched on the concrete floor on either side of her shoulders - and here it comes, here it finally is - this end Gabriel had thought would never happen at all, and not this way, not -

With a howl of sheer, demented rage, Sam turns back and slams his open hand right over Gabriel’s heart - there is a shock of golden light - a scrambled feeling of guilt and regret as Sam realizes Gabriel’s hand is still inside his brother’s chest, and next -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
>  _shedim_ \- demon  
>  _dodi_ \- uncle (or, any older male you're friendly with)  
>  _ha'elyon_ \- most high (usually an epithet for God, but fight me)  
>  _seiðmaðr_ \- shaman, magician  
>  _mitt allt_ \- my everything
> 
> If you follow me on [tumblr](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/), you know I found this chapter exceedingly hard to write. I hope it was alright, and that all that switching between POVs wasn't confusing or weird. Also, Mary (the real one) will have a chance to say goodbye before the story's over, if you're worried about that. And that whole Sam/Eileen thing - I promise it's going somewhere, it's not a shock value thing. Or not just that, anyway. Something else that will become relevant later on is the figure of the Watcher - I'll explain more about that when we meet one again.
> 
> I don't know how clear that was, but something I always liked to think about Gabriel is that he got to meet his vessel in Scandinavia - that Leif was a shaman, or a [seiðmaðr](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sei%C3%B0r), and met this creature he thought was Loki out in the wildnerness. Seiðmenn were apparently considerate effeminate and shunned from the community, hence this idea of two lonely beings who found each other.
> 
> Finally, what Lucifer said about free will - I kind of agree with that, and please read [_Homo Deus_ by Yuval Noah Harari](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31138556-homo-deus) \- it's a scientific look at who we are and where we're going, and also incredibly easy to read, and it _will_ blow your mind.
> 
> Oh, and I chose iguanas for my metaphor because!!! iguanas are the only animals who're on the same sexual vibe we are?? Like, that's why if you're a woman, you shouldn't adopt a male iguana - because that fucker will feel when you're fertile and respond to it? As in, become a bit aggressive and peacock around and hope you'll mate with him? And apparently other animals can't sense that at all, and nobody knows why iguanas get all hot and bothered when they're reptiles and should function on a different scale? And if this isn't the best thing you ever heard, I don't know how to help you.


	22. Third Wheel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! Sorry it took so long. :/

Cas stumbles back at once, as if hit by a physical blow; he steps away from the door, leaning for a second against the wall before making his way down the dark corridor. Reality seems to shake and shatter around him, until everything becomes the one thing Cas wishes he’d never seen: Dean’s face, flushed in pleasure.

(Dean’s face, focused and hungry for someone who’s not him.)

Without thinking, without much knowing what he’s doing, Cas opens the first door he sees, takes a few steps inside the room and finally collapses against a desk, his hands gripping the wood as he wills himself to calm down, to remember this is not _his_ Dean -

(His Dean: an angry, lonely man, currently at the dubious mercy of a Nephilim.

Also, not his.)

\- that it doesn’t _matter_ , really, what this version of Dean thinks of him, or how many mistakes Cas makes under his roof, because he’ll be gone soon, because he’ll go right _now_ , in fact - because he’ll never see the man again after tonight and they don’t know each other (they don’t owe each other _anything_ ), and Cas - Cas didn’t mean for this to happen, anyway - he doesn’t - he’s ashamed, most of all, by the arousal he felt, by that split second of jealousy when he’d finally realized Jo was with him, and of _course_ she was, and Cas has no _right_ \- no, this is it: he’s leaving - he must go right now, before Dean can even think to follow him, and then - _I’ll come back later_ , Cas thinks, his thoughts a mess of longing and guilt and anger, and he very nearly splinters the wood under his fingers as he tells himself that yes, he’ll come back next spring, once his Grace is fully healed, and he’ll keep his promise then, he’ll help Dean with his nightmares, but for now - he’s got no choice, he -

( _Sorry_ , the box had said, and Dean had looked at it in bewilderment for a few seconds before swiping his hand across the table in a violent, angry gesture.

Cas had tried picking up the brightly colored pieces, but that had been another stupid, useless idea: as Dean had pointed out from over his head, sounding like he was trying to calm himself down, there were pieces missing to begin with, and the game could not be played.) 

It’s not a good plan, and it’s not what he wants to do, but it’s the one rational option. And Cas, after all, has spent a lifetime of time and space choosing order and duty and sensible odds over everything else. It shouldn’t hurt so much to do so now, because this is, all things considered, a linear, unproblematic issue. Cas was never supposed to become Dean’s guardian. That was a self-appointed task, and Dean never truly needed him, and their friendship - that could never have progressed for any significant length of time. 

Because Dean is mortal, and Cas is not. 

(Because after his death, Dean will drive down a silvery purple road, towards dawn, towards the house of his childhood memories, perhaps, but Cas - when he dies, Cas will simply cease to exist, like a mechanical toy taken apart. Nothing of him will survive the true death, and while Dean will mourn him, is probably mourning him right now, that pain will heal.) 

Cas looks down, thinks of that other life of his Balthazar has shared with him. Of how his human charge in this world, a warrior and a prince, had slowly but surely forgotten him. In fact, there’s something of him clinging to life right now, Cas is sure of it, knows how Heaven’s bureaucracy works, knows that human souls are stored for eternity, which means that man - Soxacen - is still alive somewhere, probably still dreams of Cas from time to time in the same gentle, unfocused way humans dream of strangers’ faces and movie landscapes. And Dean - the Dean Cas knows - Dean has been starting to forget about Cas the very first second they met, because humans do not have perfect memories; it’s a paradox of sorts, but the truth is that they spent years nine years together, which means that by now, what Dean has forgotten far outweighs what he remembers. 

Maybe that’s why angels were warned to keep their distance from humans - because the fact they automatically store every piece of information (every word, every look, every nightmare and every meal of their charges) - the problem with it is that, unlike humans, they don’t have the luxury of remembering the past the way they wish to; of reshaping what truly happened in a way that would make events more suitable to their mood, more fitting and consistent with the choices they want to make. Or less painful, even. No, any relationship Cas can build with the people he loves will always bear some resemblance with the actions of a scientist analyzing a sample - despite himself, he has mental notes about Dean (and Sam, and Bobby, and everyone else) that likely inform his behavior and direct his every choice, and as for his feelings - the truth is, Cas has no way of knowing the role they play in his decisions, no way of knowing when he should even trust those feelings over what he thinks to be right.

No. He’s misguided, and he should have listened to what others had told to him, again and again and again.

( _He’s_ human _, Castiel. How do you think his story will end?_ )

He was never supposed to share his life with a human. He’s been blinded by Dean’s kindness, by Dean’s confused and guilty desires, by Dean’s brutal, pervasive loneliness. By his own failings. But that had been a fantasy, a pipe dream that’s now over.

He will never see Dean again.

And Dean will forget about him. 

In time.

And as for this Dean, a man Cas doesn’t know and can’t hope to understand - Cas finally turns around, and the first thing he sees is the man himself, standing on the threshold in his boxers, looking at him. His face is in shadow, but Cas doesn’t need to see him to know why he’s here and what he thinks of what just happened. 

_Personal space, Cas. We talked about this._

“I think you should talk to Balthazar,” Cas says, a bit too loudly, his feet frozen to the ground. “He’s cut off from Heaven, of course, which means there are blessings he just lost - he can’t travel through time, he can’t move between universes - and his Grace, that’s dimmed as well, it’s what happens when we’re isolated, but -”

“What?”

“- he’s still strong enough to help you, to make your soul whole again, to make the nightmares go away. The human soul is a very complex construct, but what you have can be cured. And I know you don’t trust him, but it’ll be months before I’m strong enough to even attempt that, and Balthazar - I can give you his email address -”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean says, very firmly, and despite himself, Cas reacts to the nickname, as he always does - because no one, before Dean, had ever taken the time to get to know him, no one had cared enough to - to -

( _Don’t ever change._ )

Cas squares his shoulders, clenches his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” he says, still much too loudly; and at the exact same moment, Dean says, “His _email_ address?”

They stare at each other for a second, then Cas looks away.

“I just meant - angels have _emails_ now?” Dean finally says, crossing his arms and leaning against the door, and Cas takes the lifeline.

“Most of us probably don’t,” Cas admits. “But Balthazar - he’s different. You should give him a chance, Dean. I know you don’t like angels, but -”

\- _he’s lonely_ , Cas’ about to add, but he’s got no right to put that on Dean.

“Yeah, about that - I should probably - I didn’t mean to go all racist on you, like you guys are all the same, or -”

“Dean, stop, you - you had every right to -”

“- I know he’s your friend, and -”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Cas says again, and this time, this time Dean hears him, and Cas sees him blush in the darkness as they both remember why they’re actually there, in what Cas now realizes is Bella’s room, and what just happened, and that Jo is probably asleep two doors down.

“It’s fine,” Dean says, which is the worst possible thing he could have said, and Cas closes his hands into fists, and he doesn’t _deserve_ it, and he keeps messing up, and he _can’t_ \- 

“Dean I’m so sorry, I -”

But there are no words. What can he even say?

(Because as much as he wants his apology to mean something, Cas can still see it and feel it, all at once - Dean bending down and whispering, _Last night on Earth, what are your plans?_ and Dean looking at him, then away, and Dean licking his lips and wishing things would be different and Dean refusing to meet his eyes after Cas had mentioned his night with April and Dean having sex and how Cas had _felt_ it, every single time - at first in complete disinterest, and then despite himself - how he’d found himself unable to shut down the loud colors of Dean’s soul, those moments of happiness he found with other people - Dean’s memories, heavy with sounds and smells - the softness of Robin’s breasts, and how safe he’d felt with Cassie and the taste of Lisa’s lips - Cas hates himself for all these memories - _not_ his - crowding inside his brain, but he can’t shut them down and he can’t forget them and that’s simply how angels are wired, and now there’s one more memory for him to agonize over, one more item on the long list of ways he’s failed and sinned and fucked up: Dean kneeling between his wife’s legs, Dean about to come in his boxers because of how much he loves her.)

“Here,” Cas says, turning away from Dean. He scribbles Balthazar’s address on the back of a drawing, uses the same pink marker to trace an angel banishing sigil and a few other symbols of protection underneath.

Dean unpeels himself from the door. There’s a look of mild surprise on his face as he automatically reaches one hand out for the paper.

“Solange-xxxi?” he reads, holding it up so it catches the faint light of the corridor. “He a porn star on his time off?”

“Solange. The name of his first vessel,” Cas repeats, correcting his pronunciation; and then he adds, “and those are not x’s - thirty-one, that was our garrison’s number.”

Balthazar had not explained the meaning behind his web alias, but Cas, of course, had understood anyway.

“And these are -”

“So you can ward your house against angels. The largest one needs to be drawn in blood. It’s a banishing sigil. And the other ones will keep your location private. You need to paint them over the front door.”

Dean stares down at the paper, his amusement forgotten.

“So if I do this - they won’t know where I am?”

“No.”

“And the banishing symbol - how does it work?”

Cas remembers the last time Dean had used it. Or, not used it. He can still see the room clearly, hear Ishim’s sneer as he advanced on Dean, and how Dean’s hand had hesitated over the sigil - how Dean had looked at him, let his hand fall. Cas had been sure Dean would die, that Ishim would torture the life out of him just to spite Cas, to prove a point, and there are moments he still resents Dean for that - nights he walks all the way to Dean’s room and wants to walk in and ask him what, exactly, was he thinking and why he hadn’t saved himself and why he always feels that everything and everyone is his responsibility - and next, thankfully, he remembers he shouldn’t do any of that. Remembers that Dean is human, and that he needs to sleep. Remembers that yes, he is now living in the Men of Letters bunker, that he behaves like a person and drinks the occasional cup of coffee and pokes at the pancakes Dean makes when he’s in a good mood, but he is most assuredly _not_ human, and how it works is that he finds ways to keep himself busy until the morning, because there are moments he’s simply not needed or welcome. Remembers that Dean wouldn’t understand why Cas is berating him, would see nothing wrong in his own behavior at all.

“Any kind of blood will do, but the effect will be stronger if you use human blood. It’s activated by touch.”

“And then what happens?”

Dean is intent, now, and there’s something surreal about him - about this man who’s still half naked, his hair sticking up in every which way; about that paper he’s holding (there’s the drawing of a rabbit on the side facing Cas, and Cas has to wonder if he’s even doing the right thing here, because Dean has left hunting behind, and Heaven did promise to leave him alone, anyway), and how his haunted eyes contrast with the quiet, sleepy house around them.

“It’s - unpleasant,” Cas says, “for us. It hurts. It weakens us temporarily, so that we take a while to find our way back. Think of it as pushing someone off a boat in the middle of a vast lake and sailing on without them.”

Dean looks up then, and Cas sees his next question clearly ( _Did he ever use it on you?_ ), sees Dean is too polite to actually get it out, especially now, after Cas has healed Sam and made him whole again, and Cas knows this is not about - this is not random curiosity - Dean is trying to understand, to imagine himself in a situation where he’d - give up all of this, a home, a wife, a human family, to choose someone who -

The truth is, Dean is still afraid of him. Not in the way he was when they first met, and now there are many complicated feelings intertwined with that fear, but still, it’s clear he can’t understand how it worked, and why Cas would ever be interested in trying in the first place. In fact, it’s likely this Dean can see Cas much more clearly than the other Dean, because no matter how careful Michael was, Dean had seen his victor, blinked in wonder and terror at Michael’s true form, and that’s what he’s thinking right now, that he mustn’t forget, that the person now standing in front of him, the person who surrendered to him and saved his brother, well, that’s not a person at all, not a man, not a human, and those blue eyes he’s got, that’s a trick, and _fuck_ , maybe he doesn’t mean to trick anyone but that’s still not him, and Cas - Cas wades out of those thoughts the moment Dean starts to wonder whether Cas can actually read his mind and how much time he’d need to draw these sigils, and as he takes a step back, he remembers, again, Jo opening her mouth in silent pleasure, and Dean moving his fingers inside her, the silver coin on his necklace shining against his naked chest as it caught the light.

“Dean, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. About before. I didn’t - I -”

Dean shakes his head, folds the paper in four. 

“Hey, I told you, it’s _fine_. It’s -”

But it’s not fine.

“I never meant to - to spy on you,” Cas rambles. “I didn’t - and Jo - Dean, I -”

“Cas, come on - what you did for Sam -” Dean makes half a gesture, as if he was about to put his hands in his pockets before remembering he’s not wearing any pants. “And yeah, right now, that wasn’t - look, I get it. I don’t know how long you were there, and that wasn’t good, but fuck, it’s not - it doesn’t _matter_. Look, you’re not - Richie had this dog, and it was always watching us, and -” 

The sentence goes nowhere, and Dean looks away, his soul a discordant music of greys and dark colors as he suddenly realizes he’s said something unforgivable. 

_Richie had this dog, and it was always watching us._

Mick Davies had called him an attack dog, and Cas knows he’d been a scholar in angel lore. He’s seen the Men of Letters archives in the Bunker, knows the London branch would have amassed far more extensive research about Heaven, and this dog comparison - Cas had heard it many times before, and while it is incorrect on a number of points, there is no denying the essential truth of it: that while he’s currently occupying a human body and speaking a human language, he’s an alien being, and he belongs to a different species. 

“Is that what you think?” Cas asks, after a moment of silence. He was trying to sound unaffected, but something of his feelings must show on his face, because Dean looks stricken.

“No, I didn’t - I _don’t_ \- look, you said it yourself, okay? You’re not - like us, you know? You didn’t mean it, you didn’t - you don’t _feel_ things like us.”

_I got an erection watching you go down on your wife_ , Cas wants to say, but he doesn’t. What good would it do? What happened was - horrifying. Inexcusable. And, anyway, Dean is most probably right. The erection was a physiological reaction, and all it proves is how far Cas has Fallen, and how he’s well on his way to forgetting his place in the world and his natural state of being.

(How he still can’t _begin_ to understand how to be human. Or human-like, at least.

Because a normal - because a _person_ would never wander around his hosts’ house in the middle of the night and invade their privacy.

Because that sudden light Cas had sensed, the exhilarating reach of Dean’s soul opening up like a flower - he can’t lie to himself there: Cas had known, on some level, what that meant. And that’s why he should have remained downstairs and shut it out, instead of giving in to his worst instincts.)

“Look, I -” Dean adds after a full minute, but he can’t quite bring himself to look at Cas. He passes a hand on the back of his neck, seems to wait and listen for signs of his brother or Jo waking up. “There’s something else. When I saw you up in the forest, I - I can see you. You know that.”

Cas nods; has to stop himself from asking what is it, exactly, that Dean sees when he looks at him.

“When Michael -”

Suddenly, Dean’s soul seems to flare, like dry leaves catching on fire, and Cas moves away from the desk, reaches for Dean before remembering he has no right to touch this man, and not enough Grace to make that pain better.

Dean shakes his head, clenches his jaw in embarrassment, crosses his arms, the paper where Cas drew the sigils almost crumpling in his fist.

“I saw other angels before. And they didn’t look like you. You are - _fuck_ , I don’t know how to explain. It’s like I _know_ you from some place, like I _had_ to help you, you know?”

A sudden feeling of dread washes over Cas’ heart, seems to shrink it inside his chest.

“You - _recognized_ me?”

“Not really. But I -” Dean starts, and there is nothing after that; it’s already way too much, though, and Cas wishes he’d never heard any of it.

“That still doesn’t excuse -” he tries, but Dean cuts him off.

“I’m not angry,” he says, his words slow and careful. “Hell, it’s fucked up, but I even - I was _okay_ with it, Cas. Not with someone was watching, I’m not into that shit - but - it was not _someone_ , it was _you_ , and I just feel -”

“I saved you from Hell,” Cas says, his voice completely hollow. “It was a different world entirely, but I put my hand on your soul, and you saw my true form, and that - that leaves a mark.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Dean offers, without seeming to realize how repulsive Cas finds the whole concept.

Because he’s never allowed himself to put the thought into words before, but if this between him and Dean is a - an obligation, a bond formed in a purely chemical, physical way - something that can make Dean risk his life for him, again and again - something that can force him to come back for him, to -

( _Roll the dice_ , Ishim had said, and Dean - Dean had looked directly at him. And Dean had chosen him, over his own life, again.)

“So there’s something - there’s something there,” Dean says, and he glances at Cas’ lips before adding, “And you should tell him.”

Cas turns around - he doesn’t want to see it - because Dean is - attracted to him, he’s aroused still, not fully, not consciously, but he _is_ , Cas can hear Dean’s blood under his skin as easily as he can hear Sam shifting around in bed in the room under their feet, his mind unencumbered by nightmares - but the thought brings him no pleasure. Dean doesn’t know him here, he has a wife and a daughter, and yet he’s drawn to him; it’s possible that Dean desires him, even, in a concrete, sexual way, the same as the other Dean, _his_ Dean, because that’s something that Cas knows, even if he doesn’t let himself acknowledge it - he _knows_ of those feelings, and now he finally understand they are a warning, not a blessing: the most visible sign of just how uneven and off-balance the relationship between them really is.

And what is worse is that even now he’s starting to fully realize the full truth of the bond between them, even now he understands Dean had no choice in any of it, well - if this Dean were to kiss him, Cas would let him, wouldn’t know how to say no to that - would likely fall back on the child’s colorful bedspread and take whatever Dean is willing to give him, because that’s how weak and sinful and broken he is -

“Cas,” Dean tries, but Cas doesn’t let him - he brings a hand up, and turns away from him, and as he does, he catches sight of a shape silhouetted against the faintly lighted window - a human figure rapidly taking form and weight, turning into - into -

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas whispers, in shock, as Dean, his own Dean, bewildered and dirty and dog-tired, emerges in front of him. He’s not looking at Cas yet - he’s clutching at his own chest, as if something is bothering him, but in a matter of seconds he looks up, and when their eyes meet, everything else ceases to exist.

This is _Dean_ \- this is the man Cas chose to Fall for - this is the one who changed everything, who - who saved the world, who saved Cas, who -

Cas stares.

He thinks he must have forgotten how _bright_ Dean’s soul truly is, how even in this half dream state he’s in it shines and flickers all around him like moonlight on water - and how _familiar_ the man is, how he fits against Cas’ Grace, because he just does, they’re like two objects that were made to sit side by side, and Cas -

_Cas?_ Dean says, just as Cas realizes where they are and why they can’t do this, not anymore.

(They weren’t made that way: _Cas_ made it so, Cas tied Dean to him when he claimed him in Hell, and that is why Dean trusted him despite his better judgement, why he accepted Cas’ assistance, welcomed him back even after Cas had slaughtered dozens of angels and humans, after he’d hurt Dean’s own brother.

It was never about free will at all. And it doesn’t matter that Cas never had any malicious intent, that he never even realized the full extent of his mistake until now. _Nemo censetur_.)

“Look, I’m sorry,” the other Dean says behind him. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m - I’m not good with words, you know? I’m an idiot.”

The real Dean takes a tentative step forward, but from the way he glances at his surroundings, from how careful he is in his movements, Cas understands he doesn’t see the room, or not very clearly.

“I’m here,” Cas says quietly, and for the first time, Dean smiles.

_I know that, dumbass. I’m getting you out._

“What?”

Cas looks back over his shoulder at the other Dean.

“I’m experiencing an etheric phenomenon. I might need a minute alone,” he explains, and he watches as Dean frowns in confusion, clearly decides he would gain nothing from asking and backs out of the room. 

_Are you talking to someone?_

Cas looks back at his Dean.

“I’m - I’m with you. With another version of you,” he says, before he can stop himself, and there’s something that could be unease, or even fear, on Dean’s face.

_But you’re coming back?_ he asks. _You’re not - staying?_

“I’m not staying,” Cas says, and hopes Dean won’t notice this is only half an answer.

_How is he like?_ Dean asks next, despite himself, and Cas almost smiles.

“He is like you. He _is_ you.”

_No, I get that. I meant -_

Cas can’t answer that. He can’t tell Dean that if he’d chosen differently - if he’d said yes to Michael - he could have ended up in a house just like this one, with everything he’s ever wanted - a wife, a child - a family of his own. It seems pointless and cruel.

“Sam is okay,” he says instead. “You’re both okay.”

_That’s not -_ Dean starts, but there’s nothing after that. He looks down at his chest again, makes half a sound of distress, of pain, and Cas finally wonders how he’s even managing this.

“Is someone hurting you?” he asks, urgently, and they step closer to each other, Dean stumbling slightly, Cas ready to catch him.

_No, Gabriel is just - wait, what happened to you?_

Cas brings a hand up to his own face, feels the cuts and bruises on it - the tangible memory of the window exploding inwards as Balthazar made his way into Dean’s house, and the shape of Sam’s fist all around his eye. Dean reaches up, passes two careful fingers on the broken skin, but Cas can’t feel his touch at all.

“Don’t worry about me. What do you mean - is Gabriel _alive_?”

Dean lets his hand fall.

_We’re in that other world_ , he says, after a short moment. _Jack - I think he gave Sam some of his powers, and now he walks around like his dick’s ten inches long and he’s got these golden eyes and to be honest it’s fucking -_

Cas watches, completely powerless, as Dean’s shape disappears from the dark room; and then, before he can think of anything, Dean is back, his soul in dark layers of annoyance and fear. He passes a hand on his chest again, seems to steel himself against the pain.

“Dean -”

_That motherfucker_ , Dean mutters. He looks up at Cas. _Listen, it doesn’t matter. We need you back, Cas. Things have been crazy over here and -_

Dean’s soul flickers again.

_I thought you were_ dead _, Cas, and I couldn’t -_

And again.

Knowing full well it’s useless, Cas steps closer to him, his hand reaching out, as if to take Dean’s arm.

_I need you_ back _, man._

“My Grace is severely depleted,” Cas says, letting his hand fall, and Dean frowns at him.

_You just said you were fine._

“I _am_ fine, I just - I won’t be of much use to you right now.”

Dean makes a gesture of exasperation, his transparent hands raising and falling by his sides.

_You think I give a_ fuck _about that?_ Jesus _, Cas - I thought you were_ dead, he says again, and Cas has to look away from the intensity of his gaze.

He wants to believe it’s love Dean’s feeling - the same kind of genuine love that grows and blooms like a stubborn wild flower when humans share their lives and look at the same dawn day after day, but he can’t be sure of that, not anymore. He’s always known he could be a liability to Dean, and he’s struggled to understand how best to be of service to him, but this - this changes _everything_. Because if their bond is so strong even a man from a different universe can feel it, something must be very, _very_ wrong.

_I_ need _you, Cas_ , Dean says, the words rushed, as if taken from him against his will. _We’re waiting for mom now, and then we’re going home, okay? We’ll - we’ll take a fucking_ holiday _, I don’t know - find a beach somewhere -it’s about damn time we -_

As Dean disappears again, Cas begins to worry. Etheric connections can be unreliable, but Gabriel is an archangel, and he should be more than capable of keeping one open for ten minutes without interruptions. He thinks of that world of ash and death he’s only seen a glimpse of, and he wonders if this Gabriel Dean’s chosen to trust has perhaps been weakened by the war, if Dean’s soul is not at risk of -

_This_ fucking _\- Cas, I think mom’s there now_ , Dean says urgently as he reappears, _but I don’t know how long I’ve got. I just wanted you to know - look, when you disappeared, I promised myself if I ever saw you again I’d tell you -_

“Please don’t,” Cas forces out, his voice more grief than sound. “Dean, there’s something you should know. I am not worthy of your friendship or affection. I made a grave mistake, and -”

Dean grits his teeth in sudden pain and almost keels over.

_Motherfucker_ , he breathes, and when he looks up again, his soul opens up in a vibrantly colored thing Cas doesn’t know what to make of.

_Cas, come on. We’ll talk about all that, but I don’t_ care _\- you gotta know that by now. I fucking_ love _you, okay?, and that’s not gonna change, so stop being a dumbass and -_

His heart in his mouth, Cas stares at the spot where Dean has disappeared and wonders how he can find the strength not to respond to what Dean just said.

_I fucking_ love _you._

He’s been waiting for so many years to hear Dean say that, and now - now all is ruined by the possibility, the distinct certainty, that Dean can’t really make that choice of his own free will. That he’s been coerced into the feeling by Cas’ unthinking claim on him, and if that is the case, there is no way Cas can take advantage of it.

( _They_ want _to be taken, little one,_ Lucifer had once told him. _You're not doing the Righteous Man any favors by giving him the time to figure out what he wants._ )

_I love you_ , Dean has said, and then he's vanished, and Cas can't think straight - there is an _I love you too_ beating against the inside of his ribs like a drum, but the one thing he can't do is he can’t let it out, can’t let Dean hear it, can’t _ever_ let himself -

“Dean,” he says, his hands clenched into fists as the air in front of him starts to shimmer again. “Dean, I -” 

But the figure emerging in the dark room is not Dean.

It’s someone else, someone Cas barely remembers by now, someone he’d never expected he’d see again.

“You?” Cas asks, and the shock washes his every thought right out of his head.

“Me,” the woman smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it. Two chapters two go, can you believe that?? I'm hoping to update next week - please make my day and try and guess who this woman is. :)
> 
> _Nemo censetur ignorare legem_ : nobody is thought to be ignorant of the law, in the sense that not knowing the rules is not a justification for breaking them.


	23. Good Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.

The room slowly fades around him, becomes a white, luminous thing of flickering nothingness, but Cas hardly notices. 

Daphne looks exactly the same. She’s still the short, plain woman Cas remembers; in fact, she doesn’t seem to have aged a day. She’s wearing modest, old-fashioned clothes, and she smiles up at Cas like she’d done all those years ago from the banks of the river. 

It’s a kind, sad smile, and despite how unexpected her presence is, Cas can’t bring himself to be wary of her. _I’m a place to rest_ , that smile says; _I’ll take care of you now_.

Cas remembers what it was like, sharing his life with her. He’d never known to doubt who she was back then, never known he should have questioned his own identity and purpose, but those memories have not faded completely - he remembers lying in the dark, unable to sleep, unwilling to wonder why it was, exactly, that he never slept at all. He remembers how he’d finally sat up one night, almost overcome by fear, and how Daphne had come into the room, stood on the threshold.

_What are you doing here?_ he’d asked, and she’d smiled.

_I heard you._

_I wasn’t making any noise._

_I know. May I sit with you?_

They’d never slept together, not in the same bed, not as husband and wife, but Cas had been so overwhelmed he’d nodded, bowed his head against his knees like a small child. He hadn’t looked up when he’d felt her rearrange the covers, and the light dip in the mattress. 

She hadn’t touched him. She’d just sat there, her legs crossed, the sole of her socked foot only one inch away from the naked skin of his thigh.

_I don’t know what’s wrong with me_ , he’d said, trying to breathe through it.

_Nothing is wrong with you._

_I can’t sleep. I don’t sleep._

_You don’t need to._

The room had been quiet. Her whole house was always silent, almost too much so: she didn’t have a radio, or a television, she never sang, never made any noise when she moved, and the sounds of the outside world seemed unable to seep through the walls of her meticulously tidy house.

Cas had liked it. Time had seemed to flow much more slowly in that artificial silence, and he’d known, in that instinctive way one knows how to breathe, that time was something he needed.

Time to heal, perhaps.

Or to serve out a sentence.

_I feel so alone_ , he’d said, after a while, and he’d immediately wished he could take it back, because he wasn’t alone - Daphne was right there next to him, and she’d saved him, brought him into her home - it was so ungrateful of him to - to -

_You are lost_ , she’d said, passing a hand through his hair in something that was not quite a caress. _But you will be found again._

They’d slept side by side after that, every night, and Cas had been soothed by Daphne’s quiet presence. He would inch closer and closer to her, until his knuckles were grazing the soft cotton of her nightgown, and she would talk into the darkness, tell family stories and poetry and fairy tales, lull him into a half sleep that unspooled his fears into distant dreams.

Dean had been jealous, Cas knows this, but Daphne - they’d never even kissed. He’d never been tempted to, never even thought about it, and he’d sometimes wondered about that over the following years - if the memory of Dean, hidden deep within his slumbering Grace, had prevented him from seeking out a different partner, or if something was simply wrong with him. Humans, after all, take beauty and kindness and charm very personally; think of those qualities in terms of how they affect themselves. They are wired to see themselves as the center of something - of events, of the world around them, of their own lives. They cannot, therefore, consider other people in a truly detached way; instead, they see others through the impact others have on them. 

And Cas - Cas is not human, and he lacks that. 

It shouldn’t surprise him, perhaps, that he finds it so difficult to feel sexual desire; to even notice a man’s symmetrical face, a woman’s generous figure.

On the other hand, many of his brothers had seemed perfectly content with the loud and uncompromising way they carried out their mission. They would often find irrational reasons to favor one human over another, to like some of them and dislike others - and sometimes, that would extend to their sexual sphere. Cas had never known what to make of it.

Possibly there is no explanation for this. Maybe Cas is just broken, and that is why he’d never realized Daphne was an attractive woman, never sought comfort with her. After all, it had taken him years to name the strong, confused feelings Dean had awoken in him, and even now, he doesn’t know what to do with them. When he’d seen this Dean with his wife, he’d been jealous, but is that really what he wants? 

(He thinks of Dean doing that with him, back in his room in the Bunker, and shrinks away from the possibility before he can get consumed by it.)

The truth is, sex is one thing, but he wouldn’t know where to start to do what Jo does in this world - share her life with Dean, look after a house, take eternity one day at a time. He’s as sexually inept as he is socially unaware - he used to be arrogant, to believe theoretical knowledge and passive witnessing of human history would be as good as possessing a human heart and actually experiencing a mortal life, but these last few years with the Winchesters have proved him wrong, time and time and time again; and now, under the unassuming scrutiny of Daphne’s placid expression, he realizes he’d felt as vulnerable around this Dean’s quiet domesticity as he’d been when he’d woken up in that river in Indiana - lost and shivering and confused at everything.

Back then, Daphne had found him, encouraged him to rest, to rediscover who he wanted to be; now she’s here, and as he looks at her with his true eyes, he finally realizes she’s not human at all.

“You’re a _Watcher_ ,” he says, frowning in confusion, and her smile widens.

“I am,” she says, simply. 

“Are you from my world?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a name?”

At that, the not-woman in front of him makes a peculiarly human gesture: she smooths the front of her skirt, as if suddenly self-conscious, and lowers her gaze a fraction before smiling back up at him again.

“I like Daphne. I find it suits me.”

“Is that all it takes?” Cas asks, which is ridiculous of him - he knows perfectly well Watchers are the most powerful creatures in all of creation, but somehow the idea they can name themselves is too much to bear.

(Names define _everything_. That anyone, any _thing_ , would presume to name itself, and to do so on a whim - it shouldn’t be as terrifying as it is, perhaps, but Cas can’t help it. He almost shakes his blade into existence before remembering he left it with Dean.)

“Doesn’t ‘Castiel’ suit you?” she says next, and of course she would know about this, a fact so old Cas has almost forgotten it himself: that his current name is human-given, not God-given. That he was created with a different name, a string of sounds and colors no human could ever hope to pronounce or hear without suffering life-altering consequences, and how that name was abandoned, never alluded to or spoken again once he was assigned to watch over humanity. In fact, he can’t even remember it himself, and that suddenly seems like yet another omen of a decision he should have taken a long time ago. 

( _You are lost, brother. You are Fallen._ )

“Or ‘Cas’, even?” Daphne asks, oblivious of, or uninterested in, his internal turmoil; and Cas shakes his head.

“You leave him out of this.”

“He _is_ this, ‘Immanu’el.”

A witness to God’s presence: that was how she’d called him as she waded in the cold water to join him, as she cupped his face and reassured him everything would be alright.

“ _No_ ,” Cas says, his voice softened by the unnatural dimmess around him. “I won’t - no.”

“Why not?”

Cas doesn’t answer. He thinks about Dean, his Dean, and how tired he’d looked; one inch from giving up. His clothes had been filthy, stained with blood, and there had been a quiet desperation etched around the lines around his mouth, a wish for everything to be simply, finally over.

_Just kill me_ , the man he’d met in Hell had said. _Just finish it_.

It was a paradox, in a way, because Cas had never a met a man so furiously, determinedly and cheerfully alive as Dean was - Dean who could forget his nightmares with a slice of pie or a movie intended for children, Dean who urged everyone he met to keep fighting, to have faith in a better tomorrow, Dean who’d devoted hours, weeks, months of his life to maintaining the very embodiment of transience and decay - his beloved car, which would one day rust and fall apart and stop working despite his best efforts - and yet, despite all this, Dean also seemed to welcome death - Cas had seen that clearly from the very beginning, he’d seen it in his anger, in his constant sense of disappointment (with himself, with the world, with life itself), in his fundamental and primal exhaustion, but also under the light of his happiest moments - there was always a part of Dean’s heart which refused to beat in synchrone with the rest, a part that refused to live, a part that was just _done_.

And Cas has to wonder, now, how their bond has affected that. Whether it’s made Dean’s life more difficult, whether it’s painted a larger target on his back.

(Which it has, there is no denying that.

A man strong enough to keep an angel at his service for almost a decade - that was perhaps not unheard of, but still unusual enough for the wrong kind of creatures to take an interest.)

Daphne is looking at him like she knows something he doesn’t, but Cas can’t inflict his own shortcomings on Dean, not anymore.

“You deem yourself unworthy,” she starts, but Cas interrupts her, forgets he’s supposed to be scared of her. 

“I _am_ unworthy. I forced that connection on him. I _touched_ him and I _claimed_ him, and -”

“He _responded_ to you. You more than anyone should know that a claim works both ways.”

He shakes his head.

“If there’s even a chance he didn’t want this, I have to walk away.”

There is silence again, but as Cas focuses on it in a vain attempt to drown out his own thoughts, he understands the noises of the world have not ceased. They’re faint and seemingly irrelevant, but they are still there. It starts with the sound of Dean’s steps and soul behind him - Dean who’s walked back into his daughter’s room, now empty, Dean who’s hurrying to check every other room in his home, not so much looking for Cas as making sure his family is safe; it spears through the familiar sound of his own existence (the muffled, intermittent praying of his brothers and the faint echo of God wishing the world into being); and it ends into that other place where the real Dean is currently waking up to the sound of anger and grief.

They are on the threshold of two different dimensions, and the Watcher is a dead weight holding them in balance - a creature that’s completely silent and empty under her human shape and her determinedly unremarkable clothes.

“Will they be safe?” he asks, and she looks at him, _inside_ him, before nodding.

“They will be safe,” she says, “from monsters and abominations. That part of their lives is now over.”

“Jack?” Cas guesses. 

“His countenance, as the sun, shines in his strength,” she quotes. “For your flock, he is to be the First and Last.”

Cas feels a brief flash of vindication (he’d trusted in Jack, given himself up to his faith, and he’d been _right_ \- for once, he’d been _right_ ) before trying to imagine a world without the threat of supernatural forces. Demons would be trapped in Hell for evermore, and angels would most likely devote themselves to prayer and contemplation. And as for everything else - the damned souls of the ghouls and the vampires and the werewolves Sam and Dean had spent half a lifetime fighting - those would be released back to whatever state their actions had earned them: paradise for some, perdition for the others. 

It was hardly a perfect system, but if it kept the Winchesters safe, Cas would take it.

The death of all monsters.

What an unexpected, momentous development.

Cas knows Dean’s hoped for this, that he couldn’t have let himself rest until it was done. That he’d known full well the task was impossible; that he’d understood, aged fourteen, he would very probably die in his effort to fulfill it.

_It was supposed to be me_ , he’d told Cas one time in the Bunker, as Cas was nursing a cup of tea and trying to get warm. _Closing the Gates of Hell - fuck, we should have gone through with it - I would have_ fucking _done it, but losing Sam -_

He’d had a haunted, unhealthy look about him then, and Cas had wondered at it. He knew only worry for Sam could make Dean look like that, but it hadn’t made sense - Sam had been fine, had taught him to shave only that morning, as intent and kind as he usually was, and bearing no sign of his ordeal.

_I couldn’t let him do it. I couldn’t - I’m the one who’s supposed to die_ , Dean had suddenly blurted out, and Cas had wished he still had the power to reach out and heal him of his pain.

Still, it’s hard to imagine the Winchesters as anything else than hunters.

What would they even do with their lives?

( _Now what’s going to happen to us without monsters?_ )

He knows that Dean’s vague projects don’t extend beyond a beach vacation, and that Sam has given up on his dreams of college long ago, but at the same time, worrying about them seems like an irrational luxury. They are human, which means they’re very skilled at meeting new challenges and adapt to new landscapes. 

They will manage to be happy. They will be okay.

( _They are - changeable_ , Balthazar says inside his head. _They are clouds under our sky of fixed stars. They_ overcome _, Cassie, and we -_ )

No, now he knows Sam and Dean will be safe, Cas has no excuses to put off what must be done.

“I need to break the bond,” he says, more to himself than to the Watcher; and a great weight clenches around his heart, because while he did have a life before meeting Dean, he’s not sure he can bear one without him now.

“You are too harsh on yourself.”

“I want him to have a _choice_.”

“He chose to be claimed,” Daphne says quietly, and Cas wishes that was enough.

“That’s not how it works,” he counters, and he knows it’s useless, that she’ll never get it, because free will - in its truest, purest form, that’s something that was only awarded to humans, and even the Watcher - she’s still smiling at him, a bit sadly now; despite her power and her mysterious task, she’d been kind to him before, and likely she believes herself to be kind now, but those words - that’s what Lucifer would have said.

_He chose to be claimed._

As if Dean, starved and tortured and very nearly stripped of his humanity, could ever have chosen anything freely. As if the mutilated soul Cas had met in the foulest pit of Hell could ever have said no to him. 

(In fact, Cas knows what happened down there - how Dean had said yes even to Alastair, how his pain and grief and piercing loneliness had led him not only to hurt others, but to seek some kind of intimacy with the demon who’d been his master for decades.

Cas had seen it when he’d healed Dean’s soul, and then again in the red flare of Dean’s nightmares - Dean begging Alastair not to go, not to leave him alone in the dark. Dean repeating what Alastair wanted him to say - words of love and submission and devotion. He doesn’t know how much Dean remembers of those lost years, but that’s a wound that will take a long time to heal, and Cas, who was bred to obey orders, can’t imagine what it must have been like for Dean to turn himself inside out to please a monster he despised - someone who’d delighted in torturing him for decades.

And one thing he won’t do - he won’t force Dean to do _anything_. Not anymore. He’d thought he could guide Dean in the past, but he’s come to learn Dean doesn’t need any instruction - his heart is worth more than anything Cas could ever offer him.)

“I made my decision,” he says, flatly, and he’s glad, now, of the white nothing around him.

He regrets not saying goodbye to the other Dean, and he wishes, more than anything, that he could see his Dean again (his whole body is aching for it, yearning for one more minute in Dean’s company), but the artificial, timeless landscape around him is helping him to be firm; to focus on what actually matters.

The Watcher clasps her hands over her stomach, looks steadily at him.

“There is no easy way to accomplish what you ask.”

“I know,” Cas says, the weight inside him growing heavier and heavier.

“Undoing what has been done - that will affect your Grace. The very essence of yourself.”

Cas waits, not trusting himself to speak.

“You could die, I suppose,” Daphne continues, in that same tone of mild interest and melancholy. “Or you could join your brothers behind the Pearly Gates, which are now sealed for good.”

_Where can I find help? My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth_ , Cas prays, loud inside his mind, and he knows it’s useless at this point, knows no one is listening, but he’s found habits are hard to break. He’d lived at the court of David for a time, unseen and unnoticed, and he’d realized with a certain wonder that human prayers were both softer and stronger than the ones he’d been taught - he’d taken to watching the old king sing to himself in the dark, drowning out his many sins and his bitter regrets in the hope of a sliver of salvation. 

_He will not let your foot slip; he who watches over you will not slumber._

( _So, this is it. E.T. goes home._

_Are you_ sure _about this?_ )

The truth is, it’s no longer possible to seek refuge with his brothers. For better or for worse, he’s burned that bridge a long time ago. And he doesn’t want to die - it’s selfish of him, and a feeling that’s recent enough to give him pause on occasion, but it’s still there, like a flickering candle flame somewhere deep inside him.

He wants to _live_.

He wants to -

“Or I could cut your Grace off you, and make you human,” Daphne adds, her voice shattering Cas’s thoughts, and these were the words he both hoped and dreaded she’d say.

Because he doesn’t know how to be human without Dean - he almost died twice the last time he tried that, one time at the end of his own blade, and the other under the howling of dark thoughts and loneliness and sadness. 

And yet, he can’t be with Dean.

Without his Grace, he’s got nothing of value to offer.

Sam and Dean would take him in, Cas is sure of it, and they’d do it willingly, because they are good, decent men, but Cas doesn’t want to be a burden. If the world is rid of monsters, that means they can both move on with their lives, and whatever they do next, Cas has no place in it.

He doesn’t have a plan, though, doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t feel anything beyond the sudden urge to let Dean go, to make him free, to cut that thing between them. He wonders if becoming human will make him forget Dean in time, just like Dean will slowly forget him; if it will make his feelings less sharp, less painful. 

Somehow, he doubts that.

And he thought he’d have more time to - to _be_ with Dean. To explain. To say goodbye to him. He never expected a Watcher to show up, and yet now she’s here, staring at him, waiting for an answer, and Cas can’t -

_I fucking _love _you_ , Dean says, his voice clear and resolute in Cas’ memories, and Cas wonders how he’ll gather enough strength to walk away now, to live a human life in solitude without the solace this man gives him every day. He can’t think, he can’t - Dean is _everywhere_ , sliding into bed with Jo on one side of the veil, clutching at Sam’s chest in confused grief on the other, and the sounds and colors and smells of him are too thick to breathe - Cas sees his soul emerge from the shadows of Hell, tainted and mutilated but brighter than any sun, and he sees Dean shaving in front of a chipped mirror, his eyes suddenly on Cas, his heart blossoming in empathy for someone who should have been his enemy; _I’m not leaving here without you_ , Dean says, missing the contemplative, astonished look of the vampire Lafitte behind him, and also _Hold still_ , his hands very careful as he cleans Cas’ face, as he looks at Cas’ lips, and Cas can’t stem that flow of memories, but all of that is ruined, now, by the fact Dean could have been a completely different person without him - because if Cas hadn’t been careless, if he hadn’t let Jo die, if he hadn’t prevented Dean from answering Michael’s summon - if he hadn’t claimed Dean in the first place, still drunk on his own victory, exhilarated by the dark demonic blood covering every inch of his blade - if he’d paid attention, if he’d truly loved humanity the way his Father had wanted him to - if -__

___I should have been better_ , Cas thinks, wildly, and it’s a familiar course of thinking by now, one he’d indulged in time and again as he reflected upon his mistakes and sought penance. _I should have -__ _

__“He _loves_ you,” Daphne says softly, “and it’s more than likely he would have come to love you anyway.”_ _

__“That’s not -”_ _

__“You are enough, ‘Imman’uel. You always were.”_ _

__“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” Cas forces out - he can’t hear anymore, because this woman - because this is a Watcher, and those are not subjective opinions; what she’s describing is a reality that could have been, and Cas can’t let himself imagine it, think how things would have been different if -_ _

__“I see.”_ _

___Just kill me_ , Cas thinks, his gaze dropping to his feet in shame. _Just - finish it.__ _

__(“Is everything okay?” Jo asks sleepily somewhere to his right; and Cas hears, only just, Dean’s quiet answer. “Yeah. I think so.”)_ _

__“There is,” Daphne says, after a long pause, “another option.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case someone out there never heard it: _the road to hell is paved with good intentions_.  
>  _His countenance, as the sun, shines in his strength._ \- Revelation, 1:16.  
>  _Now what’s going to happen to us without monsters?_ \- adapted from Constantine Cavafy's poem, _Waiting for the barbarians_.  
>  _Where can I find help? My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth. He will not let your foot slip; he who watches over you will not slumber._ \- Psalm 121:3.
> 
> Also I hate to say this, but this past week has been unbelievably shitty and I'm trying to remember this is how life works, and that grief is a natural thing and that love is the one choice we can make and whatever the fuck else, but it's bloody _hard_. So, anyway - if you're enjoying this story, any kind of comment would be greatly appreciated. Thank you and sorry.


	24. The Golden Ladder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Johnny Cash's song, _The Man Comes Around_
> 
> On the bright side, this chapter is almost twice as long as usual. 
> 
> That’s it. 
> 
> That’s the bright side.
> 
> (Deep breaths, okay?)

Dean wakes up gasping and coughing and choking on shards of words; he half throws up all over Sam’s shirt, but as Sam instinctively reaches for him, cups his face (“Hey, hey, hey - Dean? Dean, _breathe_.”), Dean swallows back his nausea, puts his right hand on top of his brother’s and claws at Sam’s shirt with his left.

“Sammy,” he rasps out, “ _Cas_ \- I -”

His voice is all wrong, like he hasn’t said anything out loud for months -

_Dean - come on buddy, say something. Anything. For Dad?_

_Sweetheart, can you understand what I’m saying? Nod your head if you do._

_Your son, Mr Winchester - he may simply be slow._

\- and when he clears his throat, he suddenly feels it - a dull, heavy pain smack in the middle of his chest. For a wild moment he’s sure he’s having a heart attack, remembers Bobby coming downstairs and poking at the bag of junk food Dean was planning to wolf down for breakfast - _This stuff will kill you, you know_ , Bobby had said, in disapproval, and Dean had grinned at him and _Better a burger than a vamp_ , he’d said, and Sam, who’d been busy doing push-ups, had scoffed at him from the floor. 

The memory is in chunks of sound and image; not something he’s deliberately calling to mind, ‘cause he doesn’t need that shit right now, never wanted to be that guy at all - the asshole who made a demon deal and lived on grease and booze and bad sex for a year - but his mind is what’s left after a grenade goes off - there’s dry crumbles of words and faces and good stuff and nightmares just floating around his brain, making it hard to remember what fucking _counts_ , to bring Sam’s serious, sad face into focus - Dean blinks, is sucked back into his stupid thoughts, because if this is it - if his arteries are finally giving up - fuck, it’s almost a _relief_ , right? 

This is a death he understands, a thing that makes perfect sense. Something that follows a very precise pattern of cause and effect. 

It’s not unfair. 

It’s not fucked up at all. 

(And didn’t Dad always say -)

The delusion only lasts a few short seconds; when Dean looks up again, he realizes Sam’s very close to crying (what the _hell_? what’s wrong now?) and also - there’s someone standing right behind Sam, someone -

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Dean tries, and it’s a bit better, but the words still skin his throat raw. “What -”

He coughs, and Sam sighs, a sound of relief, maybe, of exasperation (because Dean has probably, surely fucked up - again), helps him to sit up.

“Welcome back,” the man says, and even the voice is the fucking _same_.

And Dean can’t look at him, and he wants to say _You’re supposed to be dead_ and _I fucking killed you_ but he can’t and that’s not his place and also, _fuck_ , this is _not_ the man Dean remembers. 

Not even _close_.

No - the figure standing twenty fucking feet from Dean, his arms crossed, his elegant clothes untouched by the chaos and grime and dust of the room - he looks like Death, but he’s not - he fucking _can’t_ be -

( _It’s for the greater good. Once you consider that, this makes all the sense in the world._ )

Dean glances up again, clutching at his aching chest; tries to breathe through another surge of nausea. Looking at the guy is making his brain hurt. 

“Dean,” Sam starts, quietly, but there’s nothing after that.

“I apologize for the discomfort. This is not a job I generally perform, and I’m sorely out of practice.”

They both look up at the man then - a man who’s got the same gaunt face Death used to have, down to those lines around his eyes and the flat, severe line of his mouth, except this is like a negative image of him - like a goddamn picture that came out wrong - his hair is pale blond in this world, almost white, and his eyes have a sort of transparent quality that would look sickly on anyone else but it doesn’t on him, okay, it just _doesn’t_ \- because this is still _Death_ , and there’s the same raw power emanating off him that Dean remembers so well, a thing that’s hot and cold at the same time and it’s making his nausea a thousand times worse and the voice - Christ, that _voice_ -

( _To be what you are, to become what you've become is a stain on their memory._ )

\- Dean can’t help it: he scrambles up to his knees and throws up, the taste of orange soda and bad pie passing through his mouth like acid.

( _You will never,_ ever _hear me say that you - the_ real _you - is anything but good._ ) 

“What - what the fuck -” he mumbles, cleaning his mouth on his sleeve.

“You - you died,” Sam says quietly, somewhere above him, and Dean knows his brother well enough to catch a wave of canyon-deep, motherfucking _guilt_ in those words, which means it’s not Dean who fucked up here and it’s not Gabriel - it’s Sam, Sam who was overconfident because of those goddamn golden eyes, Sam who always cared too much about his fucked-up brother, and always at the wrong _fucking_ time.

_Jesus_ , no way Dean’s even worth all that devotion. He didn’t deserve it when he was nine, and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve it now, so whatever it is Sam’s done, however he’s fucked up, Dean’s not interested. So he died - big deal. He’s alive again, and right now, there’s only one thing he cares about, and he can taste the bittersweet thing that’s soda and bile mounting in his stomach as he thinks of Cas - of Cas who’d looked all wrong in those ordinary clothes (whose?), of Cas who’d been beaten up, and how the hell did that happen, who could even do that to him, and Dean tries to think back on their conversation, to remember if Cas had a way back home, if -

“Not like it’s the first time,” he finally forces out, sitting back on his heels, pressing a hand to his heart as if to check it’s still beating. 

He knows there’s a bruise there, but if whatever happened fucked up his heart - hell, his heart’s been fucked up for a long time now. And the truth is, if he’d died when the stupid thing had first given up on him, then none of that other shit would have happened.

“Gabriel’s dead,” Sam says flatly, like he’s reciting a shopping list. “And Lucifer.”

Now _that_ grabs Dean’s attention. 

“You ganked _Lucifer_?” he asks in disbelief, his head snapping up to take in his gigantic brother, who’s two hundred pounds of muscles but will always, _always_ look like a child of four to Dean, will always be that kid who’d spend hours at a shitty motel table, his feet not touching the floor, trying to color in the letters of a diner menu without going outside the lines.

He should have stayed here, that’s what Dean thinks now, his battered heart shrinking even more inside his chest; because _Jesus_ , he’s not too proud to admit Sam can take care of things on his own damn self, okay, he’s really _not_ \- but the thing is, he doesn’t fucking _want_ Sam to. Sam’s _good_ , and it’s Dean’s fault if he got dragged into this shitty, pathetic life in the first place, and the thought of Lucifer putting his dirty hands on his brother, fucking again, makes Dean’s hair stand up with rage and panic.

He moves to get to his feet, and as he does he looks around for the familiar body of Lucifer’s vessel - a normal guy in ordinary clothes, and who even knows where Lucifer found him.

Instead, not two feet behind him, he sees his mother.

His mother’s _body_.

The second of disbelief comes and goes. She’s dead, and that’s it. There’s no way to get out of it, no chance to kid himself - she’s just dead, and as Dean stands up, reaching out to steady himself against Sam’s arm, as he stares at the huge-ass wings exploding from her shoulders like a painting, he suddenly gets it. All of it.

_Son of a bitch._

He looks back at Sam, who won’t meet his eyes, and then at Death.

“You bring her _back_ ,” he says, through gritted teeth, and Death smiles kindly.

“No.”

“What do you mean, _no_? You brought _me_ back.”

“I was told you were a good cook,” Death shrugs, and Dean stares at him.

He’s feared this from the very first second, but now he’s absolutely sure. 

Because this person, this thing - this is _not_ the guy he knew. In fact, this is not even his soul, his ghost, or whatever the fuck else. No, this is another version of him, a thing that belongs to this world, a thing they don’t know and have no control or leverage over.

Dean looks down again. Gabriel’s body is right next to his brother’s - golden eyes open and unseeing, black wings etched into the concrete floor, all twirls and waves and beautiful finality. There’s a blade two inches from his hand, dark with blood. 

(There’s some complicated feelings running under Dean’s skin, stuff that makes him wanna turn his back on all of this and just - just start over, because Dean remembers Gabriel laugh at him as those two strippers beat him up, and everything the fucker put Sam through, but he also remembers how Gabriel had chosen to put himself between them and Lucifer, and he’s not enough of an asshole not to be grateful for that.)

He takes a deep breath.

None of this makes any sense.

None of this can be happening.

They were so _close_.

So _fucking_ close.

“Cas,” he starts, and Death cocks his head to one side, as if listening for something.

“Castiel is dead,” he says. “Angels are always the first to go when the potter’s wheel stops turning.”

Dean flinches, only just, his head and lungs a mess of shrill noises and black smoke; and Sam grips his shoulder, steadies him.

“He means this world’s Cas,” he says. “I think.”

Death blinks his clear eyes at them both.

“Your brother is correct,” he offers, in a neutral tone, as if this doesn’t matter either way. “What goes on beyond the corners of my own chessboard has no relevance to me.”

Dean breathes out, curses, tries not to think of the little girl in her summer dress.

( _You are pure, and we are connected, you and I._ )

“It’ll be okay,” Sam says, sounding like he doesn’t believe a word of it. 

“I _do_ regret, though,” Death adds, taking a step back, “that I won’t get to taste your famous enchiladas.”

And before Dean can think of anything to say to that, the guy is gone - vanished into thin air. 

It’s like the end of a dream - a very shitty, heavy with bad cheese dream - because as soon as Death vanishes, everything else suddenly snaps back into focus. Sam is still there, tall and dog-tired and still gripping Dean’s shoulder like he’s afraid Dean will drop dead again, and the two bodies are there as well, their wings’ lacy patterns stretching over the floor like shadows, but also - the room - the room is now full of people, because it’s only been ten minutes, hasn’t it? Ten minutes since Gabriel froze reality, and sent him to Cas. Ten minutes since Cas smiled at him in some place that looked like a child’s bedroom, ten minutes since Sam ganked Lucifer and their mother died. 

Ten fucking _minutes_.

It feels like ten years, but that’s what dying does to you.

(Also love.)

Dean stands up straighter, checks his weapons, tries to do a quick headcount. He sees Eileen first, hovering uncertainly a few feet from Sam, and Bobby making his way towards her, and Crowley frowning and blinking as if he’s just woken up, his bare arms a mess of chalk and burns and blood. There’s the woman in the red dress too, staring at them both, and another twenty or thirty people, all of them frightened and way too slow for whatever’s about to happen - Dean can see they’ve got their feet all wrong, thinks vaguely that if a fight’s coming, they’ll be knocked on their backs in two seconds flat.

“Are you alright?” Eileen asks him, closing the distance between them, and Dean nods.

She looks for a second like she wants to touch his chest, feel the traces of whatever miracle brought him back buzz under his clothes, seems to thinks better of it. She moves back to Bobby instead, speaks rapidly to him in sign language, her hands moving in quick, urgent movements.

“Sammy, what the _hell_?” Dean asks.

His mother’s body on the floor is daring him to look at it, but Dean just won’t - he can’t do anything about it, he can’t accept it’s real, and there’s a part of him that hopes Cas will be able to fix it, because Cas _will_ come back, because there’s still time and they can still make it.

Fuck, things _must_ be okay this time. 

Dean will fucking _make_ them okay.

For starters, he’s told the guy he loves him, and those words - something like that, it _must_ matter. It must _change_ something, and that’s why people say it, right? Movie chicks and anime girls and every fucking song in the world - Dean went full Leia here and fucking said it and what it means is that they’ll get their fucking happy ending, that’s the unclear, panicked thought flickering on and off in Dean’s brain like a fried light bulb - that they’ll get their _Star Wars_ marathons and their foosball games and their pizza dinners in the Bunker - with Mom, with Jody and the girls, with everyone who wants to fucking come, because after this - after this, Dean is just _done_ , and all he’s got the strength to imagine is his fucking room, clean and tidy and plain perfect, and how Cas will look as he sits down on the bed and watches Dean get an extra t-shirt for him to sleep in.

‘Cause Cas - there was no time for him to say anything, but Cas loves him back. 

Right? 

Right.

Fuck, anybody can see it, and Dean’s a drunk and a killer, but Jesus Christ - he knows that much. He’s seen how Cas looks at him, all soft and girly and like he’s waiting for a fucking kiss all the time, and Dean - Dean is beyond caring what it will look like, what Sam will make of it, and what happens if they fuck it up - ‘cause he’s never said those words before, not to anyone, and he’s never really known what that feeling’s like, either, not until - not -

( _Cas, you goddamn_ child.)

\- but that doesn’t mean he’s a complete moron - the guy _loves_ him, okay, which means he’ll say yes to - to whatever the fuck will happen next, and Dean will take _anything_ by now - any- _fucking_ -thing - the Bunker or some kind of house somewhere or Baby and the open road - God, all he wants is for this nightmare to be _over_.

He wants to go _home_.

“Death is alive,” Sam says, after a long moment. “The one we knew, I mean. Apparently, he can’t really be killed.”

Dean breathes out, turns on himself to check the room again, and Sam finally lets go, crosses his arms across his chest.

“Yeah, Jack said something like that. Did you talk to him?”

“No. I never saw him.”

Dean waits for what he actually wants to hear, but Sam says nothing.

“So - what about Mom? What about -” Dean blurts out after a full minute of silence, gesturing at the bodies on the floor. “Sam, what the _fuck_ is going on?”

Sam clenches his jaw, doesn’t answer. Dean knows he could ask again, switch to that voice he uses when giving orders; he knows Sam responds to it, because those years spent training with Dad - that’s something neither of them can wash off, and the thing is, he _hates_ it, and he doesn’t want to do it, but nothing about this makes any sense, and Sam doesn’t seem in any hurry to - to get out, to pull himself together - to keep on living, even.

In fact, now Dean can see his brother clearly, now the pain inside his chest and the stiffness of his muscles are wearing off, now he finally realizes Sam looks even more defeated and ready to give up than he feels.

Not hard to guess why, either.

‘Cause Dean - he doesn’t want to think about it, but Mary with a set of huge-ass wings - fuck, that means Sam had to kill Lucifer even if - Dean shrinks away from the idea, thinks of anything he can say to Sam, anything to shake him out of this horrified stillness his brother seems to be under, but before he can come up with something useful, Crowley’s there, still looking like he was run over by a semi but stupidly, miraculously alive.

_Fucking cockroach_ , Dean thinks, a wave of affection and regret crashing on his soul, fading out.

“I take it it worked?” Crowley asks, and it sounds weird and formal in his fucking British accent, like they’re discussing some scientific experiment and not - the end of the world.

Or whatever the fuck this is.

“It worked,” Sam says, shortly. “Thanks.”

Sam and Crowley were never comfortable around each other, but this is a whole other level of awkward. Dean watches the way they glance at each other, then away - Sam’s mouth a line of ten different feelings, Crowley drinking him in, moments away to reach out and fucking hug him or toss him a baseball or something.

_You killed Sam because of me. And it destroyed you, Dean_ , the demon’s ruined voice rasps in Dean’s memory, and Dean suddenly wonders about the world Cas is still stuck in - Cas had told him both he and Sam were okay there, but his definition of okay - or he could have lied to Dean, spared him pain or whatever the fuck, and Dean doesn’t know what hurts the most about that: the idea that somewhere out there, he killed Sam, then himself, or thinking that if he’d made different choices everything could be alright by now, that maybe Cas wasn’t lying and there’s a place where he spends his days fishing and Sam drops by when he’s done with some fancy case and they crack open a cold one together and just -

“I never liked you all that much,” Crowley says softly, as if to himself, and Sam clenches his jaw, “but then again, I gave up my soul. I couldn’t like anyone anymore.”

Sam says nothing.

“You were supposed to lead us, and you failed.” Crowley reaches out; lets his hand drop. “Looking back, it’s probably a good thing.”

“You don’t say,” Dean mutters, trying to ignore how _weird_ the guy looks - _tattoos_ , for Christ’ sake - in his world, Crowley had made it very clear what he thought about tattoos.

Crowley looks at him, doesn’t smile.

“I hurt you both,” he adds, his dark eyes back on Sam, “because I could. Because it was easy. To have the King of Hell butchered on your orders - that doesn’t happen every day.”

Sam’s expression doesn’t change, but Dean knows him well enough to see how much the words hurt. 

_The King of Hell._

He remembers what it was like - how Sam had gone through anger, and fear, and finally raw panic as he fought his destiny and lost and lost and lost. He remembers Sam waking up from his nightmares with a smile on his lips, and how that smile would vanish as soon as he remembered - he realized - _What if there’s nothing to fix?_ he’d say, late at night, half hoping Dean would be asleep, half hoping he wouldn’t be. _What if this is who I am?_

( _That’s stupid, Sammy_ , Dean would say; or, _The fuck are you doing up? It’s past three, you idiot_ , because Sam - he couldn’t see his brother in the darkness, but this was a grown man, or as close as anyone gets, and Dean could no longer - Sam had made it clear they were not like that anymore, that he never wanted to be treated like a kid, that he didn’t even _like_ Dean most of the time - his pathetic older brother, the one who drank too much and still thought the sun shone out of Dad’s ass and the only thing he was good for, they both knew that, the _only_ thing he was good for was killing, and those other things - those other things Sam had chosen to forget - Dean making him dinner and Dean driving him to school and Dean stealing books and clothes for him and Dean dragging him back from John’s drunken fury and Dean climbing into his bed when Sam was sick or sad or angry enough to cry, Dean pushing him closer to the wall and messing up his hair and saying, _It’s gonna be alright, Sammy. I’m here, okay? I won’t let anything bad happen to you_.)

“There was a debt,” Crowley adds, before Dean can think of a way to shut him up, “and now we’re even.”

With a last look at Dean, the demon walks away, and something about his limping, about the stiff line of his back reminds Dean Crowley is no longer a demon, and what the fuck will he do here, anyway? This world is - can it go back to normal? What if -

“I know what it looks like,” Sam says, a bit too fast, his eyes on Crowley. “But I didn’t - I could never have done it. Not like that.”

He’s talking, Dean thinks, about Lucifer. He’s talking about Lucifer to prove a point, to wash Crowley’s words off him - to make it clear he’s not whoever Crowley remembers, that he could _never_ -

“Gabriel killed Lucifer,” Dean guesses, with some relief, and Sam nods.

“Yeah. And I - Dean, I’m -”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” 

“Sam -”

“Dean, you _died_.”

“It doesn’t _matter_. I would have done the same.,” Dean says, and hopes Sam is too far gone to notice the lie; to get mad about it.

( _You didn’t save me for me. You did it for_ you, Sam had told him once; and then: _Same circumstances, I wouldn’t do the same thing._ )

“Look,” Sam starts, but next he stops talking, sort of balances his weight on his dominant leg, and Dean knows what that means, he’s the one who taught him to do that in the first place.

He turns around, his muscles tensing, ready for the fight, and there’s the woman in red, her blind eyes directly on his.

“Your mother would like a word,” she says, softly, and this is a day for shock and blood and sucker punches, because before Dean can even ask, Mary’s there - _Mary_ \- a bit younger now, but still older than the young woman Dean once met in a dream - and she’s smiling at them, her clothes a cleaner, non-hunter version of what she used to wear in life.

“Dean. Sam,” she says, stepping closer, and Dean hears his brother breathing out something that’s almost a sob. 

“Mom, I -”

“I don't have long. I had to fight with two angels to get here,” Mary says, quickly, and Dean doesn’t want to know if she means she knocked them out or talked to them; finds he doesn’t care either way, because she looks - she -

“ _How_ -”

“They told me I can’t come back, and that’s - that’s okay, but I needed you to know - Sam - I was already dead.”

“What?”

“There was nothing you could have done. Everything that happened - it was never your fault.”

Her body flickers, like a candle flame someone is breathing through, and Dean wants to reach out, keep her here. 

A stupid thought, of course. Ghosts - you can’t touch ghosts. He’s known that since he was nine.

“And I’m sad I won’t get to know you better, to meet your children,” Sam shakes his head, but her smile widens, “your _children_ , my grandchildren, for God knows how many years, but it’ll be okay - your father is waiting for me, and it’s time we talked.”

“You saw Dad?” Dean asks, before he can help it, and Mary nods.

“We’ve been angry at each other for a long time. And when I came back, when I read his journal, I -” Her body flickers again, and her voice fades. 

“Mom!”

Sam moves towards her, but his outstretched hand goes right through her shoulder.

“It’s okay, Sam,” she says. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more -”

There’s an expression on her face Dean really doesn’t want to see, but he can’t look away - if this is the last time he’ll ever be with his mom, if she’s really dead, then he needs to stay right the fuck here and take it, ‘cause it doesn’t matter and it’s both her fault and not her fault and Dean had tried telling her once before, and it never worked, so that’s why he can’t - he doesn’t -

“I remembered you as children,” Mary finally says, almost too quietly for Dean to hear her. “And I think maybe I needed more time to - I don't know. I'm sorry. Please come visit me after you die, okay? And give me another chance?”

“We can still _fix_ this, we -” 

“But promise me you’ll live a long, happy life before that.”

“ _Mom_ -”

“Dean, _promise_ me.”

Dean clenches his jaw. Mary definitely looks younger, he thinks; younger than she was when she came back, and maybe younger than him, which is a mindfuck all on itself. He wonders if she’s slowly turning into that woman he’s never met but had longed for all these years - the one who’d stopped hunting, who’d still loved John, who’d done her best to forget about demons and live a normal life.

“ _No_ ,” he says, through gritted teeth, and he doesn’t know if he’s angry or jealous, because _look_ at her - she’s _out_ , she’s _done_ , she gets to be the person she was always supposed to be, and he -

“Dean -”

“I can’t decide that. I can’t decide _any_ of that. I can’t promise you I’ll have a long life, what sort of shitty -”

“Dean, shut _up_ ,” Sam snaps, but Dean won’t have it.

“Nobody knows the future,” he growls back. “ _Nobody_. We don’t even know if we’ll make it to next week, and with the way things are going -”

“Those things you said to me - I heard them. I _remember_ them now,” Mary says, taking another step closer to him. “And Dean - I _see_ you. I’m here, and I see you.”

As he watches in disbelief, she reaches up, cups his cheek, and he feels that - it’s not a human touch, but it’s warm, and it’s real.

“You think you can forgive me,” she says, softly, “but before you do that, you need to forgive yourself.”

Dean says nothing.

“Your father and I - we’re gone, sweetheart. We’ve been gone for a long time in every way that matters, and you - you were right. What happened was on me, not you. We were your parents. We should have been there for you.”

The woman in red makes a small movement, and as Dean glances at her, he sees the room’s walls seem to be fading - the protective markings are paler and paler, their color almost invisible against the concrete.

_There is no time_ , Cas says, in Claire’s voice, and Dean puts his hand on top of his mother’s, feels the rough skin of his own face.

“I’m proud of the man you’ve become,” Mary whispers. “I love you, Dean.” 

Before Dean can say anything to that, she’s moved away, and is now looking up at Sam, whose eyes are red and brimming with tears.

“My baby boy,” she says, softly. “I wish we could have had a different life together. I wish I could have seen you grow up, that I could have helped, that I -”

“Mom -”

“- but the past is behind us now, and we need to let it go.” She smiles, a bit sadly, and as she brings a hand up to brush her hair back, her wedding ring flashes on her finger. “I was never supposed to come back. In this world, that was my time, and Azazel was my death. You both need to let me go.”

Someone’s noticed how the symbols are fading, and there is noise now - people talking to one another, people moving quickly away from the walls, people crowding around the woman in red, asking for orders, for answers.

Also a different noise; something like wind, distant now, but coming closer and closer.

Mary steps forward, and Sam leans down to hug her, his hands curving around the almost invisible curve of her back.

“And remember, just listen -” Mary starts, against his hair, and Sam nods.

“Listen to Dean,” he says, thickly. “Yeah. I know.”

Mary looks up at him, and something softens in her expression. 

“I was going to say, listen to your heart, Sam,” she says, stroking his hair like she would a child’s. “You have such a good heart.”

The startled, almost shocked expression on Sam’s face goes through Dean like a knife - because here is where you see it, right, how much of a damn _failure_ he is, how he’s completely botched this - because it’s his fault if Sammy never - if he thinks -

_Fuck_.

“Mom,” Sam says, and she smiles at him, kisses his forehead.

“Goodbye, sweetheart.”

# ***

Cas turns on himself, looking for Dean through the small crowd of panicking people scrambling and stumbling around the room, but when he finally sees him, he freezes. 

Dean is watching his mother disappear, and Cas’ seen this too many times to even wonder at what’s going on. He knows that sometimes a soul will be granted permission to deliver a final message to their loved ones, and he knows how there’s an office somewhere in Heaven that charts the result of these meetings, tries to better understand human behavior; because while most people seem comforted by the possibility to say goodbye, some never recover, and Dean - and Sam - they both look completely and utterly undone. 

(Cas remembers Dean confiding in him when Mary had come back, his words barely coming out; he remembers how Sam would talk about his mother, the light tone masking a lifelong fear - that she’d somehow rejected him, that he’d deserved that.)

As Mary’s shape vanishes from the room, the hurricane-like sound of a world slowly collapsing from the ground up explodes all around him - it’s something he knows intimately well, and was prepared for, but it still makes him ache in grief at the waste of it all, and guilt - guilt almost overcomes him. 

Restoring Death to his rightful place -the truth is, it took too long. Whatever damage was done here can’t be fixed or disregarded, not without new dawns and new beginnings and the healing darkness of a yawning void. And so people are disappearing, one after the other, and Cas watches them and thinks, _I had a hand in that. I did_. Because he didn’t know what his decision would bring, but saving Dean from the Mark - such an extraordinary event was bound to have a price.

“I will lead your friends through,” Daphne says on his left, and Cas startles - he’d forgotten she was there at all.

He watches as she walks towards Sam and Dean, her right hand extended, a beam of golden light growing and growing around it - he watches as she seemingly throws it towards the far wall, and how it lands there, forming a big, glowing circle that opens on a field of flowers.

And once his eyes adjust to the summer day beyond the portal, he realizes Dean has seen Daphne approach - that he’s _recognized_ her, and that he’s now looking directly at _him_ , his soul warm and familiar and heavy with feelings inside Cas’ mouth.

Cas tries to smile at him, and Dean passes his palms on his face, smiles back.

It’s Sam who notices it first - how it’s not just the room, but the people inside it that are disappearing into nothingness. He visibly snaps back into focus, puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder as his eyes search for someone - Eileen, Cas realizes, as Sam finds her, walks towards her, his hurried steps making no noise over the towering chaos.

Cas remembers her as a memory inside Sam’s head - not that he deliberately accessed those, not anymore, not for a long time, but for a few weeks after her death (for a few months before) her presence had been loud around Sam’s chest; sparks of light Cas would catch as they were eating or driving somewhere or doing research, and he remembers how Sam would smile at those thoughts.

(How - after - he’d shut them down, piled books and movies and - twice - sleeping pills on top of them, drowning out this woman, the way she’d smile at him, and how her body fit against his.)

And now, as everyone she knows is disappearing around her, she looks back at Sam and she - she seems to be fading as well, as if losing color, but not as fast as everyone else.

This world will end and start anew. The Watcher had told him some of it and Cas had guessed at the rest, and that is why it’s so puzzling that Eileen - Cas frowns. Something is anchoring her to reality, and as Cas watches, Sam finally reaches her, signs at her over the howling wind - _What do you want to do?_ is what that says, because Sam won’t ask her outright to come with him, won’t tell her about that other person he once knew, a person who had her eyes and her smile and would move in the same way and hide her blades in the same places - no - Sam won’t say a word about just how _important_ it is for him to get her back, because this is not who he is - he won’t use his feelings to blackmail anyone into such a choice, and especially not a person he hardly knows at all - as the ceiling above them vanishes, opening up a wide, grey sky of angry clouds, Cas sees Eileen put a hand on her stomach, and look back to watch her friends, and what remains of the world that’s been her own for thirty years: a hundred square feet of noise and dust whose edges are now fading.

Cas looks back at the spot from where Mary’s ghostly figure disappeared, sees Dean is holding Daphne’s arm, gesturing angrily at the people still running for shelter. She stares back at him unblinkingly, her back perfectly straight, and Cas doesn’t understand how he could ever think she was human at all.

_He chose to be claimed_ , she’d said to him, and now he’s back with Sam and Dean, the words make Cas almost seethe with rage, because that’s not a philosophical debate - not even _close_ \- she was talking about a human being, she was talking about _Dean_ , and just this - watching Dean argue with a being a thousand times more powerful than he is, watching him stand his ground before her, as brave and generous and stubborn as he always is when it comes to saving others - just this tells Cas he’s made the right decision, because this man - he deserves it all.

Sam is now walking back towards the portal, Eileen’s hand in his. As he reaches Dean, he looks back to assess how much time they have left, and his eyes finally meet Cas’. Like Dean, he smiles at him, and Cas smiles back.

There is a child, Cas sees that now, and he understands that this is why the Watcher will allow Eileen to step through the portal even as everyone she’s ever known and loved and fought with will return to a dancing creek of atoms and lights, and then begin a new life.

There is a child, and it’s hers and Sam’s, and Cas doesn’t know how that’s possible or when it happened, but he’s glad it did.

It’s clear they both know about it - Cas smiles as he silently blesses this tiny speck of potential, this new human that will soon walk the world - he tunes out the overpowering noises of the room so he can listen to the bird-like sound of the child’s soul slowly, oh so _slowly_ , fluttering awake; he blinks in fondness at the light of it, a light that’s already as bright as the golden magic of the portal now surrounding Sam and Eileen, calling them home.

His Father was childish and capricious and disappointing, he thinks, in vaguely formed thoughts, but he was right about this - about humans being so very _special_ , his task and his mission, because Sam - Sam is so _different_ from the young man he first met in Missouri, the one who’d rushed towards him, the one who’d been so ready to offer prompt and unquestioning devotion, and so reluctant to let go of a sin he feared to be his destiny. So different and yet the same. Cas remembers that man well, remembers his own ambivalence towards him - the disgust he’d felt when sensing the poison running through Sam’s veins, and the unwilling fascination with someone who had been claimed by evil, yes, but was not giving in to it. 

Hurting Sam, he thinks now, taking away his defenses and his sanity, that’s what he regrets the most, because Sam - Sam had forgiven him at once - Sam was never like Dean, hot-headed and emotional and ready to fight the hell _back_ \- no, Sam had put his trust in Cas out of sheer logic and piety - he’d accepted Cas’ motivations at face value, never cared about the harm that had been inflicted upon him at all. 

(There are moments Cas dares to think he’s earned Dean’s forgiveness; but Sam’s, well - there was never any way to earn that. 

How can you truly earn something that is given willingly and freely and unconditionally?)

And also - Sam was the one who never lost sight of who and what Cas really is; and that is why now, as he looks at Cas, he is the first to understand.

_So this is goodbye_ , his eyes are saying, and there’s a deep line of grey, discordant music cleaving through his soul, a thing of grief and loss and profound disappointment; and Cas nods slightly, sighs in relief when he sees Eileen is through the portal now, her feet light and graceful over the late summer flowers.

They will be alright.

They will be a family together.

_Humans - they overcome._

Sam wants to talk about this, to get an explanation, to force Cas to change his mind; but there is no time. The room around them is almost completely gone, has become a narrow tongue of concrete with Cas on one side and the Winchesters on the other. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam shouts, as Daphne tears herself free of Dean’s grasp and vanishes, “Dean, come _on_.”

It’s possible he doesn’t want Dean to think of Cas at all; that he assumes Dean won’t understand, won’t bear that separation, not now their mother is dead and an entire planet is disintegrating because of a choice they both made - that of living in world without Death, of saving each other at all cost. Cas knows he’s as guilty as Dean, as Sam, as Rowena - that he had encouraged and facilitated Dean’s final choice - and he had waited and waited for the consequences of that hubris to catch up with them all. He’d watched as Rowena’s family was destroyed, as everything she cared about was torn to shreds, and he’s seen Sam find and then lose a mother whose love he’d desperately needed, and now it’s their turn - his and Dean’s - to submit to that delicate, yet relentless mechanism which keeps the whole universe in motion.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says again, his body becoming brighter and brighter as the light of portal finally surrounds him, but Dean is only barely listening.

He looks like someone waking up from a dream, and it’s likely he is - likely Daphne obscured reality from him, forced him to listen to whatever it was she needed to tell him without the distraction of everything slowly falling apart around him - but now his head snaps up, and his eyes are sharp and focused again - he checks for Sam first, looks his brother up and down as if to make sure no body parts are missing and Sam is healthy and whole, and then his gaze flickers through the portal, taking in the meadow beyond it, before looking back at Cas. And when he sees that Cas is not moving, that the line of floor connecting them is growing ever smaller, something inside him understands, and Cas sees it happen - how there’s now a thing that goes from Dean’s mouth all the way to his heart - a thing that tells Cas Dean is very, very close to begging.

# ***

Dean wants to stop and think about his conversation with - fuck - with Cas’ fucking _wife_ , who was clearly not his wife at all, but Fate or a goddess or some other kind of shitty thing, and he also wants her to come back so he can kick her ass, because this - there must be a way to reverse this, and he can’t - he _won’t_ \- but as the woman disappears, everything’s suddenly real and urgent again, and turns out that ‘everything’ is not much at all - the wall behind him, glowing with light, and a narrow stretch of concrete leading to the place where Cas is standing, and he’s all wrong in those human clothes, also sad and lost and about to make some stupid-ass decision and _fuck_ , Dean knows that look only too well by now. He tries to move closer to Cas, but finds the fucking portal behind him is acting like a magnet - it’s a live, powerful force keeping him in place, dragging him back. He hears Sam calling his name again, gestures at him to just go on ahead, barely notices Eileen is already on the other side, and how she looks up at the blue sky in wonder.

He holds out one hand towards Cas instead, and he wants to talk to the guy, to shout at him that he can’t move, so Cas had better come the fuck _closer_ , and he knows they need to move right the fuck _now_ , that the portal could close at any minute, but he can’t - there’s something wrong with his mouth, and the words won’t come out -

(Because fuck, he knows what’s happening here, knows Cas is giving up for some stupid, self-sacrificing reason, but if he lets himself think about it, then it’s real, it’s fucking _real_ , and Dean can’t - he -

_I love you_ , he thinks, a bit desperately, _You fucking idiot, I fucking_ love _you, just -_ )

\- and the noise, _Jesus_ \- the fucking noise, that’s making him crazy, it’s making him -

( _Your fault, your goddamn -_ )

Cas steps closer to him then, and he smiles in a way that makes Dean hope maybe he’s got this all wrong. His face is still fucking ruined, and Dean wants to touch him - to clean glass from his cuts, to get him a cold pack for that eye - he thinks, wildly, that he’s got a fully stocked infirmary in the Bunker, that he was careful about that, that he’s got everything they need - it’s been one day, maybe two, since Jack sent them through, which means those Chinese leftovers in the fridge - those are still good, and okay, Cas doesn’t like Chinese food all that much, but whatever, he barely likes any food because he’s a weirdo and still doesn’t get what life is about, but Dean will - he will get Cas a home theatre so he can watch those fucking make-up tutorials of his on a big screen, and he’s aching now, for _exactly_ that - for falling asleep on some couch, his legs across Cas’ knees, the flickering light of a Youtube video just background colors and background noise - he can fucking _feel_ it - Cas’ hands resting on his shins, a bit warm and a bit heavy through his jeans - he knows the sounds, the smells - how there would be a trace of something fried lingering in the air, and Sam clicking away at his laptop somewhere behind them - it’s so goddamn _real_ , it’s so goddamn _close_ , and even if mom is gone - _fuck_ , Dean will learn how to get over that, just how he got over (mostly, probably) his fucking father fucking dying on him (dying _for_ him), and like he got over everything _fucking_ else - those men who hadn’t cared, the taste of Alastair’s lips, Robin’s sugar-sweet trust in him - Cassie telling him it was too late, and Lisa’s empty eyes as she smiled at him like she would at a stranger - how that one kiss with Jo has been salty with tears, and Benny asking him to kill him, and Charlie - Charlie in that fucking tub - Dean fucking got over all of that, because he _had_ to, because he never got a _choice_ , and that’s his entire life right there and _fuck_ that, but _Cas_ \- Dean _chose_ him, he chose to _trust_ him, he chose to _love_ him, and Cas - _Jesus_ , even with that shiner and those weirdass clothes, this is _Cas_ , and Dean remembers that moment he was sure he’d die, and how the room had faded around them both as Cas closed the distance between them, like he’s doing now - he remembers Cas putting a hand over his mouth and just looking - into his brain, or his soul, or wherever the fuck else, and how he’d - how -

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says; and the wind dies down, and that's how Dean remembers Cas i not human and something is seriously wrong here.

“You never said it back,” he says, stupidly, the words hurting his throat, his chest. “Or maybe that’s what you meant last year, I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Cas clenches his jaw, and there’s something that could be reluctance, or maybe embarrassment, all around the thin line of his mouth.

“After all this time, you have to know how I feel about you.”

It’s the right answer, and yet it’s not; it lodges between Dean’s ribs, pokes at him from the inside out.

“Cas, come on. Let’s go _home_.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“It’s the end of all monsters,” Cas says in the end, as if that even makes sense . “What’s waiting for you back there - that’s the life you’ve been waiting for.”

“What?”

“Your world is at peace. You will never need to hunt again.”

Fuck, that - Dean doesn’t know what to make of that. Doesn’t really care right now, to be perfectly honest.

“I - yeah? Great.”

“You’re free.”

Dean stares at him.

“Great,” he says again, and that’s just a sound in his mouth, something that’s got no meaning at all. “Listen, whatever - I’m just beat. Let’s go home, and we’ll figure it out later, okay?”

Cas doesn’t move.

“It’s the end of _all_ monsters, Dean,” he says gently, and there it is - the last piece of Dean’s heart that was still beating and clinging to life and hurting inside his chest - that piece snaps and burns to ashes, the smell foul and dark in the back of his throat.

“ _No_ ,” he stammers. “No. You don’t mean that.”

Cas smiles that gentle smile again.

“You used to hunt me, remember?” he asks, and Dean can’t think, reacts on instinct, going for the joke, going for the smile, going, as usual, for anything that won’t get him fucking dead.

“Well, I sure as hell _tried_ ,” he forces out, making some kind of annoyed gesture with his hands.

“Because that was your natural reaction to anything like me.”

“No, you _idiot_ , because you were melting people’s faces off their skulls.” 

“I never intended to do that,” Cas says seriously, after a short pause, and Dean wants to shout in exasperation.

“Jesus, I _know_ , okay? I know. I just meant - come _on_ , Cas. You’re not a monster.”

“You may feel differently if the bond between us wasn’t compelling you to see the best of me.”

_The bond between us_ \- it takes Dean an embarrassingly long moment to even _understand_ what Cas is talking about, ‘cause the truth is - he’s forgotten all about that. He’d never paid much attention to it - Cas had scared the shit out of him in the very beginning, sure, but with Michael and Lucifer tailgating the fuck out of he and Sam both, Dean had just - filed that information away - the fact Cas was an angel, that he was more powerful than anything Dean had never met, and how he’d said, low and dangerous and sharp as a blade, _I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in._

And after that - sure, Dean had thought about it, on and off - he’d seen Bobby’s worried frowns, bit back at Sam’s careless teasing, but that’s not - is that bond even a real thing? And what the _fuck_ \- compelling him to see the best of - _what_ -

“What are you _talking_ about?” 

He tries, again, to take a step closer to Cas, and fails. 

Cas hesitates.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Cas -”

“There is no time,” Cas says, echoing the words of that other Cas who’d spoken in Claire’s voice. “Dean, _listen_ to me - you once told me to look out for myself.”

“Cas -”

“No - _please_ \- I’m telling you the same today. I’m urging you to think of yourself. This is your chance. This is what you’ve wanted ever since you were a boy. And this new life that’s waiting for you now - you will have no use for me there, and that’s why -”

“No _use_ for you? What the _fuck_ do you mean, no _use_ for you?”

“Dean -” Cas tries, but Dean is past that.

“You think we fucking kept you around all these years because you were _useful_ to us? That we didn’t - that I don’t - Cas, Jesus _Christ_.”

There is a short pause; and then -

“I was tasked with shielding you from Hell,” Cas says simply. “Hell is now over.”

Dean stares at Cas. There’s moments he knows, he remembers, that Cas is not human, that he doesn’t think like them, that he’s got no experience of anything. He forgets most of the time, and he knows that’s wrong, can see it in how Sam looks at him, worried and thoughtful and fed up, but it’s not like he _forgets_ forgets, it’s just - Cas may be flames and eyes and fucking feathers, who the hell knows, but Cas is also - he’s also _this_ , a guy who looks like a guy and likes burgers and riding shotgun and talking physics bullshit with Sam, and Dean - Dean wants to sit him down and fucking _explain_ , like he would a child, and he also wants to let go of that part of himself, because Cas is not a child and Sam is not a child either and Dean doesn’t know a damn thing, anyway, he’s got no lessons to give and his moral high ground has turned into a mass grave of mistakes and regrets a long time ago, but still - how can Cas not fucking _get_ this?

“But we _want_ you there,” Dean tries, in something that’s more growl than voice. “Cas - you’re _family_. You _belong_ with us.”

Cas looks away, his cuts and bruises suddenly too much on his pale skin; he clearly wants and doesn't want to move away, and there's something not right in how he finally closes the distance between them. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, putting his arms around Dean in that way he has, a bit stiff and a bit awkward, “for everything.”

Dean grips the front of Cas’ shirt as Cas steps back, sees Cas glance at his lips, and he leans against the guy without thinking, because come _on_ \- this is not _real_ \- this can’t be fucking _happening_ \- they can figure it out, they can still make it - some quiet, happy bug buzzes over the flowers behind him and Dean looks down at Cas in disbelief and Cas tilts his head forward, his mouth ghosting very, very close to Dean’s before he cups Dean’s face, kisses Dean on the forehead - something chaste and sweet and the exact opposite of what Dean wanted, of what he’s been wanting for years now - but he takes it, of course he does, because this is Cas and Dean will take anything Cas is willing to give him - he puts one hand at the nape of Cas’ neck, tilts his face up, and as they are looking at each other, that’s when it happens - the light of the portal is suddenly scorching hot on his back, and the world shatters around him - Dean feels the cotton of Cas’ shirt slip through his fingers, his feet leaving the ground - the ruined room twists and melts and reforms and it’s a meadow now, a place full of thousands and thousands of flowers, all of them very nearly vibrating with life and color, and as Dean slowly gets to his feet, he’s so dizzy with the bright blue sky above him it takes him a very long moment to realize he’s on the roof of the Bunker, and that Cas - Cas is not with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Please read the next chapter.)


	25. Afterword

[Okay, so - before we begin, one) I’m really, _really_ sorry for that and two) no, this story is NOT over. Please read on.]

 

Hello and thanks for reading! In case we don’t know each other yet, hi! I’m Noah and I want to be a writer when I grow up. I also like cats, mountains and Greek mythology.

So, first things first - over the course of this story, a few people I met here on AO3 shared their problems with me, either on my blog or in the comments, and I just wanted to say - I really hope today finds you happier, and if not - I’m rooting for you to get there, okay? Life has its ups and downs, but it’s always, always worth it. ♡ 

That said: I hope you can forgive me. This story came to the world as stubborn fix-it coda, and if I wrote it at all, it’s because of you - because you cheered me on and supported me and encouraged me - but while I did my very best, it’s hard to anticipate every twist and turn of the road and control what the characters want to do. I’ve known for a few weeks now that I was not satisfied with the original ending I’d planned for this story - that it seemed hurried after all Dean and Cas had been through, that I wanted something _different_ \- and I’ve been agonizing over what I should do. On the one hand, I wanted to give you a happy ending as soon as possible, because you deserve one and they deserve one and there’s enough ugliness in the world right now without having to worry over whether your favourite characters are okay. On the other hand, I also felt that I owed you the very best story that was in my ability to create - I wrote _Blues Run the Game_ for you and because of you, and to give it a perfunctory, not heartfelt ending - I couldn’t do that. Not to you, not to myself.

So here is what’s going to happen: _Blues Run the Game_ is now part two of this series. The next (and last) fic, _All of My Tomorrows_ , will start posting in exactly one week, on **July 12th**. It should be about fifteen chapters long and it will follow the same structure, warnings and themes as this story. I hope it’s good news?

(Again: sorry. This wasn't deliberate on my part. It just - happened.

Oh, also I apologize about pushing all of this in a separate chapter, but from what I’ve seen AO3 tends to eat notes when you download fics, and I wanted everyone to know that this story is not, in fact, over.)

 **UPDATE** : _All of My Tomorrows_ is now up! You can start reading it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15267477/chapters/35415258).

Now, if you want to keep what will come next completely spoiler free, please stop reading.

For everyone else: some of you know I was working on a DCBB last year; that I had grand plans to write a _Never Been Kissed_ AU, and how that quickly became my usual mess of angst and pining and magical realism. In the end, it just didn’t work, and one of the reasons for it is that I felt the story never had a real beginning. It started somehow _in medias res_ , and while that does sometimes work, it didn’t there. We needed to know where those characters were coming from, and why they’d made those particular choices. It was important. And I seriously don’t know how this happens, and I’m sure many people will recognize the feeling - how sometimes you’re dealing with two separate problems and then all of a sudden you realize they were each other’s solution all along?

(That’s some serious magic right there, and _wow_ and _amaze_.)

And so, I don’t know - one day I was moping about this ending I didn’t like at all when I remembered that other story, and realized that - wHAT - they actually _fit together_? Very _very_ well? So that’s another reason I’m excited to share _All of My Tomorrows_ with you guys - because it’s a fic that’s been buzzing around in my head for months, and I mostly know everything that happens and some of it is already written and the rest of it is dream-written and heart-written and what I’m hoping is that you’re going to love it as much as I do. What you can look forward to: we will walk back into that world about four months after the events of chapter 24. We will find out how Dean is coping without Cas (spoiler alert: not very well), what Sam and Eileen are up to (spoiler alert: not getting married with two tons of white doves, because she’s a different person from the woman he knew and love doesn’t work like that) and what happened to Cas (spoiler alert: probably what he deserved, the oblivious, infuriating, ‘I won’t hurt Dean’ _assbutt_ ). Most of it will take place in the mountains because did I mention I love mountains, also METAPHOR and all that, and most of it will also take place in a school, complete with de-aged!Dean and teacher!Cas.

(It will make sense, I promise. Also, no student/teacher because just no.)

I’m hoping this new journey will last until around Christmas, and the epilogue - guys, the epilogue will be so _fluffy_ and _sweet_ you’ll probably need to eat two raw lemons to balance it out, I _promise_. I owe you that, and I want that for them, so that’s most _definitely_ happening.

Ultimately, though, there’s one thing I feel very strongly about: that fiction - fiction _matters_. Even bad writing, even shitposts, even fanfiction. It _all_ matters, it all shapes us, both readers and writers, and that’s why I wanted this to be done right. I wanted Dean and Cas to end up together because they _want_ to and they're ready for it, and not because they _need_ to. And I know some people find the whole ‘needing another person to survive’ pretty romantic, but from what I’ve seen, no - it’s _really_ not. Trust me on that. You don’t need another person to carry on living - you make that choice for yourself, because you’re worth it, and what happens with love - the magical, unbelievable, take-my-breath away thing that happens with love is that you suddenly _want_ this other person there by your side. Not because they make you whole, but because you make each other _better_. Because they make you into what you were all along. Because colour is more vibrant with them, and flowers and songs suddenly make sense, and there’s something comforting about their smell, their smile, the sound of their voice - something you can’t quite put into words, but do not remember ever having lived without. So this is what the new story will be about: Dean and Cas putting themselves back together, and giving themselves time to heal; Dean and Cas suddenly having the option to walk away and still - in some irrational, stubborn, _shut up and kiss me_ way - _still_ choosing each other. 

Or, at least, that’s what I’ll try to do, and I hope you’ll join me for the journey.

 

Much love and see you soon,

 

Noah

 

 **ps** \- If you like my writing, please check out my other stories! I’m especially fond of [_The Way Out_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8315497/chapters/19042117) (time travel, pining, Hell-related shenanigans), [_Autrement Danger_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6100813/chapters/13984570) (sirens, snow, Dean being an idiot) and [_The Law of Equivalent Exchange_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114240/chapters/11765849) (Cas POV, canon rewriting, resurrections - plural).

 **pps** \- Also remember I post writing updates on [my tumblr](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/)! Also other writing-related things, and birds, and language content.

 **ppps** \- Which reminds me: if you want to forget this chapter ever happened, [here are my cats being cute and happy](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/post/173027567742/so-apparently-the-great-sink-wars-are-over-and).


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